hN  DIEGO 


Vi 


DREAMS  AND  IMAGES 

AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF  CATHOLIC  POETS 


DREAMS  AND  IMAGES 


AN  ANTHOLOGY 

of 
CATHOLIC  POETS 


Edited  by 
JOYCE  KILMER 


BONI    AND     LIVERIGHT 

Ne\y  York  1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
Boni  &  Liveright,  Inc 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For  advice  and  assistance  in,  collecting  and  arranging 
these  poems,  I  am  grateful  to  many  friends,  especially 
to  Mr.  T.  R.  Smith,  Miss  Caroline  Giltinan  and  Mr.  John 
Bunker.  The  publishers,  editors  and  authors  who  have 
kindly  consented  to  let  me  use  copyright  material  are 
numerous  and  I  assure  them  of  my  deep  sense  of  obliga- 
tion. In  particular  I  desire  to  thank  the  following  pub- 
lishers for  their  generous  permission  to  use  all  that  I 
required  from  their  lists:  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  John 
Lane  Company,  Small,  Maynard  Company,  P.  J.  Kennedy 
Sons,  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company,  The  Catholic  World, 
Houghton,  Mifflin  Company,  The  Encyclopaedia  Press, 
Henry  Holt  &  Company,  The  Devin-Adair  Company, 
Little,  Brown  &  Company,  The  Macmillan  Company, 
Elkin  Mathews,  The  Ave  Maria,  Laurence  Gomme,  and 

Wilfrid  Meynell. 

J.  K. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/dreamsimagesanthOOI<ilm 


To 

Rev.  James  J.  Daly,  S.J. 


INTRODUCTION 


This  is  not  a  collection  of  devotional  poems.  It  is 
not  an  attempt  to  rival  Orby  Shipley's  admirable 
"Carmina  Mariana"  or  any  other  similar  anthology. 
What  I  have  tried  to  do  is  to  bring  together  the  poems 
in  English  that  I  like  best  that  were  written  by  Cath- 
olics since  the  middle  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 
There  are  in  this  book  poems  religious  in  theme; 
there  are  also  love-songs  and  war-songs.  But  I  think 
that  it  may  be  called  a  book  of  Catholic  poems.  For 
a  Catholic  is  not  a  Catholic  only  when  he  prays ;  he  is 
a  Catholic  in  all  the  thoughts  and  actions  of  his  life. 
And  when  a  Catholic  attempts  to  reflect  in  words 
some  of  the  Beauty  of  which  as  a  poet  he  is  conscious, 
he  cannot  be  far  irom'  prayer  and  adoration. 

The  Church  has  never  been  without  her  great  poets. 
And  in  the  Nineteenth  Century  there  was  a  splendid 
renascence  of  Catholic  poetry  written  in  English.  It 
had  already  begun  when  Francis  Thompson  wrote  his 
Essay  on  Shelley,  in  which  he  longed  for  the  by-gone 
days  when  poetry  was  "the  lesser  sister  and  helpmate 
of  the  Church ;  the  minister  to  the  mind,  as  the  Church 
to  the  soul."  The  memhers  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
Brotherhood  were  not  Catholics,  but  their  movement 
was  related  to  the  renascence  of  Catholic  poetry — 
it  was  an  attempt  to  restore  to  art  and  letters  some 

vii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

of  the  glory  of  the  days  'before  what  is  called  the 
Reformation.  Coventry  Patmore  carried  the  theories 
of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  to  their  logical 
conclusion,  as  Newman  did  those  of  the  Tractarians. 
Coventry  Patmore  became  a  Catholic,  and  found  in  his 
Faith  his  inspiration  and  his  theme.  And  his  disciple 
Francis  Thompson,  born  to  the  Faith  which  Patmore 
reached  by  way  of  the  divine  adventure  of  conversion, 
with  art  even  greater  than  that  of  his  master,  made  of 
the  language  of  Protestant  England  an  instrument  of 
Catholic  adoration. 

A  few  of  the  poets  represented  in  this  book  were  not 
yet  Catholics  when  they  wrote  the  poems  I  have 
quoted.  But  I  do  not  think  that  anyone  will  find  fault 
with  me  for  including  Newman  and  Hawker  among 
the  Catholic  poets.  I  am  very  sorry  that  the  limitations 
of  space  have  made  me  exclude  many  poems  dear  to 
me,  many  poems  that  are  part  of  the  world's  literary 
heritage.    There  should  be  many  Catholic  anthologies. 

The  poet  sees  things  hidden  from  other  men,  but  he 
sees  them  only  in  dreams.  A  poet  is  (by  the  very 
origin  of  the  word)  a  maker,  but  a  maker  of  images, 
not  a  creator  of  life.  This  is  a  book  of  reflections  of 
the  Beauty  which  mortal  eyes  can  see  only  in  reflec- 
tion, a  book  of  dreams  of  that  Truth  which  one  day  we 
shall  waking  understand.  A  book  of  images  it  is,  too, 
containing  representations  carved  by  those  who 
worked  by  the  aid  of  memory,  the  strange  memory  of 
men  living  in  Faith, 

Joyce  Kilmer. 
August,  1917. 

165th  Regiment,  Camp  Mills,  Mineola,  New  Yorjc, 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Belloc,  Hilaire 

Our  Lord  and  Lady 1 

To  the  Balliol  Men  Still  in  Africa 2 

The  South   Country 3 

The  Early  Morning 6 

The  Prophet  Lost  in  the  Hills  at  Evening     ....  6 

The   Birds 7 

Courtesy          8 

Noel 9 

Benson,  Robert  Hugh 

After   a  Retreat 10 

The  Teresian   Contemplation 11 

Blunt,  Wilfred  Scawen 

How   Shall  I   Build 12 

Song            13 

The  Desolate  City 13 

Brayton,  Teresa 

A  Christmas  Song 16 

Campbell,  Nancy 

Like  One  I  Know 18 

Carbery,  Ethna 

Mea  Culpa 19 

In  Tir-na'n-Og 20 

Carroll,  P.  J. 

Lady  Day  in  Ireland 22 

St.    Patrick's   Treasure 23 

Casey,  D.  A. 

The  Spouse  of  Christ       . 24 

ix 


X  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CoLUM,  Padraic 

Christ  the  Comrade 25 

An  Old  Woman  of  the  Roads 25 

CowwAY,  Katherine  Eixanor 

The  Heaviest  Cross  of  All 26 

Saturninus 28 

Cox,  Eleanor  Rogers 

Dreaming  of  Cities  Dead 29 

Death  of  Cuchulain 30 

Gods  and  Heroes  of  the  Gael 32 

At  Benediction 34 

CusTANcE,  Olive 

Primrose  Hill 34 

Twilight 35 

Daly,  Thomas  A. 

To  a  Thrush        ,...:• 36 

To  a  Plain  Sweetheart 40 

To  a  Robin 40 

The    Poet        41 

October 42 

De  Verb,  Aubrey 

Sorrow 43 

Human  Life    .     .     .     ; 44 

Cardinal    Manning 45 

Song 45 

Dollard,  James  B, 

The    Sons    of    Patrick 46 

Song  of  the  Little  Villages 48 

The  Soul  of  Kernaghan  Buidhe 49 

Donahue,  D.  J. 

The  Angelic  Chorus .  51 

Donnelly,  Eleanor 

Ladye  Chapel  at  Eden  Hall 52 

Mary  Immaculate 52 

Downing,  Eleanor 

The  Pilgrim 53 

On  the  Feast  of  the  Assumption 54 

Mary £5 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

DowsoN,  Ernest 

Extreme   Unction 57 

Benedictio   Domini 58 

Carthusians v     .     .     .     .  58 

Drake,  Augusta  T. 

Maris  Stella        60 

Earls,  S.J.,  Michael 

An  Autumn  Rose  Tree 62 

To  a  Carmelite  Postulant 63 

Eden,  Helen  Parry 

A  Purpose  of  Amendment 64 

The   Confessional 65 

An    Elegy        66 

Sorrow 70 

Edmund,  C.P.,  Father 

Our  Lady's  Death 71 

Egan,  Maurice  Francis 

Vigil  of  the  Immaculate  Conception 71 

The  Old  Violin 73 

Maurice   de   Guerin 73 

He  Made  Us  Free 73 

Faber,  Father 

Grandeur  of  Mary 75 

Right  Must  Win 77 

Fitzpatrick,  John 

Mater   Dolorosa 79 

Furlong,  Alice 

Yuletide 79 

Gaffney,  O.P.,  Francis  A. 

Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary 81 

Garesche,  S.J.,  Edward  F. 

At  the  Leap  of  the  Waters 81 

Niagara 83 

GiLTiNAN,  Caroline 

Communion 85 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Griffin,  Gerald 

The   Nightingale 86 

GuiNEY,  Louise  Imogen 

Tryste    Noel 86 

The  Wild  Ride 87 

Ode  for  a  Master  Mariner  Ashore       ......  89 

In   Leinster 91 

Hawker,  Robert  Stephen 

Aunt   Mary 92 

King  Arthur's  Waes-hael 93 

Hayes,  James  M. 

Old    Nuns        94 

The  Mother  of  the  Rose 95 

Transfiguration 96 

HiCKEY,  Emily  M. 

Beloved,  It  Is  Morn 97 

A   Sea   Story 98 

Hopkins,  SJ.,  Gerard 

The   Starlight   Night 99 

The  Habit  of  Perfection 100 

Spring 101 

Iris,  Scharmel 

The  Friar  of  Genoa 103 

Johnson,  Lionel 

The  Dark  Angel 103 

Te   Martyrum   Candidatus 105 

Christmas  and  Ireland 106  v 

To    My    Patrons 108 

Our  Lady  of  the  Snows 109 

Cadgwith Ill 

A   Friend 112 

The  Statue  of  King  Charles  at  Charing  Cross     .     .     .  113 

Kelly,  Blanche  Mary 

The  Housewife's  Prayer 115 

Brother  Juniper 116 

Kelley,  Mgr.,  F.  C. 

The  Throne  of  the  King 117 


CONTENTS  xii; 

Lathrop,  George  Parsons  page 

The  Child's  Wish  Granted 127 

Charity 15ia 

Lathrop,  Rose  Hawthorne 

A  Song  Before  Grief 128 

The  Clock's  Song 129 

Leamy,  Sir  Edmund 

Ireland 130 

Leamy,   Edmund    (Senior) 

Music    Magic 132 

Gethsemane 133 

My  Lips  Would  Sing  134 

My  Ship 135 

Visions 135 

Leslie,  Shane 

Ireland,  Mother  of  Priests 137 

Lindsay,  Ruth  Temple 

The    Hunters ,     .     .     .     .  138 

Livingston,  Father 

In   Cherry  Lane 140 

M.  S.  M. 

Surrender 141 

Manga N,  James  Clarence 

Pentecost 142 

Dark  Rosaleen 143^ 

MacDonough,  Thomas 

What   is  White? 146 

Wishes  for  My  Son 147 

MacManus,  Seumas 

Resignation 14S 

In  Dark  Hour 150 

Maynard,  Theodore 

A  Song  of  Colours 151 

The  World's  Miser 152 

Cecidit,   Cecidit,   Babylon    Magna 153 

A  Song  of  Laughter 154 

Apocalypse 155 


xiv  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

McCarthy,  Denis  A. 

St.  Brigid        156 

Rosa   Mystica 160 

The  Poor  Man's  Daily  Bread 161 

McGee,  Thomas  D'Arcy 

To  Ask  Our  Lady's  Patronage 162 

Meynell,  Alice 

A  General  Communion 163 

The  Shepherdess 163 

Christ  in  the  Universe 164 

"I  Am  the  Way" 165 

Via,  et  Veritas,  et  Vita 166 

Unto  Us  a  Son  is  Given 166 

To  a  Daisy 167 

The  Newer  Vainglory 168 

Meynell,  Wilfrid 

The  Folded  Flock 168 

MoRiARTY,  Helen  L. 

'Convent   Echoes 169 

Newman,  John  Henry 

England      .      . 170 

The   Greek  Fathers 171 

The  Pillar  of  the  Cloud 171 

Relics  of   Saints 172 

The  Sign  of  the  Cross 173 

O'Donnell,  C.S.'C,  Charles  L. 

The  Son  of  God 173 

To  St.  Joseph 174 

The  Dead  Musician 175 

O'Hagan,  Thomas 

Giotto's    Campanile        178 

O'Reilly,  John  Boyle 

Name  of  Mary 179 

O'Reilly.  Mary  A. 

A   Christmas   Carol 180 


CONTENTS  XV 

PAGE 

O.  Sheel,  Shaemas 

Roma  Alater  Sempaeterna 182 

Mary's    Baby         183 

They  Went  Forth  to  Battle 183 

He  Whom  A  Dream  Hath  Possessed 184 

Fallen,  Conde  Benojst 

Maria    Immaculata 186 

The  Raising  of  the  Flag 191 

The  Babe  of  Bethlehem 194 

Patmore,  Coventry 

The    Toys        195 

"If    I   Were   Dead" 197 

Departure 197 

Regina  Coeli 199 

Pearse,  p.  H. 

Ideal 199 

Phillips,  Charles 

Music 200 

Plunkett,  Joseph  M. 

I  See  His  Blood  Upon  the  Rose 202 

The  Stars  Sang  in  God's  Garden 202 

Probyn,  May 

Is  It  Nothing  to  You? 203 

The  Bees  of  Myddleton  Manor 204 

Proctor.  Adexaide  Anne 

A    Legend 210 

The  Sacred  Heart 211 

The  Annunciation 214 

Our  Daily  Bread 216 

Randall,  James  Ryder 

My  Maryland 217 

Magdalen 220 

Why  the  Robin's  Breast  Was  Red 221  ' 

Repplier.  Agnes 

Le  Repos  in  Egypte — The  Sphinx 221 


xvi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Roche,  James  Jeffrey 

Andromeda 223 

Nature  the  False  Goddess 223 

Three    Doves        224 

The  Way  of  the  World 325 

Rodney,  John  Jerome 

Ave    Maria 225 

Revelation        227 

Marquette  on  the  Shores  of  the  Mississippi       .     .      .  229 

The   Empire   Builder 230 

The  Men  Behind  the  Guns ,.     ...  233 

Russell,  SJ.,  Matthew 

A  Thought  From  Cardinal  Newman 234 

Ryan,  Abram  J. 

The  Conquered  Banner 335 

A  Child's  Wish 237- 

Sword  of  Robert  E.  Lee 238 

Song  of  the  Mystic 239  v 

Seton,  E. 

Mary,  Virgin  and  Mother 243 

Sigerson  Dora 

The  Wind  on  the  Hills 242 

Spalding,  John  Lancaster 

Believe  and  Take  Heart 244 

Stoddard,  Charles  Warren 

Ave  Maria  Bells 345 

Stigmata 246 

The  Bells  of  San  Gabriel 247 

Strahan,  C.S.C,  Speer 

The  Poor 249 

The  Promised   Country 250 

Holy  Communion 250 

Swan,  Caroline  D. 

Stars  of  Cheer 251 


CONTENTS  XV  ii 

PAGE 

Tabb,  John  Bannister 

Christ  and  the  Pagan 252 

Out  of  Bounds 253 

Father  Damien        253 

Recognition 253 

"Is  Thy  Servant  a  Dog?" 254 

Thompson,  Franqs 

LiHum   Regis        254 

To  the  English  Martyrs 255 

The  Hound  of  Heaven 261 

The  Dread  of  Height 267 

To  My  Godchild 270 

Tynan,  Katherine 

Michael  the  Archangel 273 

Planting  Bulbs 274 

Sheep  and  Lambs 275 

The  Making  of  Birds 276 

The  Man  of  the  House 278 

Walsh,  Thomas 

Coelo  et  in  Terra -     .     .  279 

Egidio  of  Coimbra 281 


Dreams  and  Images 


OUR  LORD  AND  OUR  LADY 
By  HiLAiRE  Belloc 

They  warned  Our  Lady  for  the  Child 

That  was  Our  Blessed  Lord, 
And  She  took  Him  into  the  desert  wild. 

Over  the  camel's  ford. 

And  a  long  song  She  sang  to  Him 

And  a  short  story  told: 
And  She  wrapped  Him  in  a  woolen  cloak 

To  keep  Him  from  the  cold. 

But  when  Our  Lord  was  grown  a  man 
The  Rich  they  dragged  Him  down, 

And  they  crucified  Him  in  Golgotha, 
Out  and  beyond  the  Town. 

They  crucified  Him  on  Calvary, 

Upon  an  April  day; 
And  becaus.e  He  had  been  her  little  Son 

She  followed  Him  all  the  way. 
1 


TO  THE  BALLIOL  MEN  STILL  IN  AFRICA 

Our  Lady  stood  beside  the  Cross, 

A  little  space  apart, 
And  when  She  heard  Our  Lord  cry  out 

A  sword  went  through  Her  Heart. 

They  laid  Our  Lord  in  a  marble  tomb, 

Dead,  in  a  winding  sheet. 
But  Our  Lady  stands  above  the  world 

With  the  white  Moon  at  Her  feet. 


TO  THE  BALLIOL  MEN  STILL  IN  AFRICA 
By  Hilaire  Belloc 

Years  ago  when  I  was  at  Balliol, 

Balliol  m.en — and  I  was  one — 
Swam  together  in  winter  rivers. 

Wrestled  together  under  the  sun. 
And  still  in  the  heart  of  us,  Balliol,  Balliol, 

Loved  already,  but  hardly  known, 
Welded  us  .each  of  us  into  the  others: 

Called  a  levy  and  chose  her  own. 

Here  is  a  House  that  armours  a  man 

With  the  eyes  of  a  boy  and  the  heart  of  a  ranger. 
And  a  laugfhing  way  in  the  teeth  of  the  world 

And  a  holy  hunger  and  thirst  for  danger : 
Balliol  made  me,  Balliol  fed  me, 

Whatever  I  had  she  gave  me  again : 
And  the  best  of  Balliol  loved  and  led  me, 

God  be  with  you,  Balliol  men. 


THE  SOUTH  COUNTRY 

I  have  said  it  before,  and  I  say  it  again, 

There  was  treason  done,  and  a  false  word  spoken. 
And  England  under  the  dregs  of  men. 

And  bribes  about,  and  a  treaty  broken: 
But  angry,  lonely,  hating  it  still, 

I  wished  to  be  there  in  spite  of  the  wrong. 
•My  heart  was  heavy  for  Cumnor  Hill 

And  the  hammer  of  galloping  all  day  long. 

Galloping  outward  into  the  weather, 

Hands  a-ready  and  battle  in  all: 
Words  together  and  wine  together 

And  song  together  in  Balliol  Hall. 
Rare  and  single !    Noble  and  few !  .  .  . 

Oh !  they  have  wasted  you  over  the  sea ! 
The  only  brothers  ever  I  knew. 

The  men  that  laughed  and  quarrelled  with  me. 


Balliol  made  me,  Balliol  fed  me. 
Whatever  I  had  she  gave  me  again; 

And  the  best  of  Balliol  loved  and  led  me, 
God  be  with  you,  Balliol  men. 

THE  SOUTH  COUNTRY 
By  Hilaire  Belloc 

When  I  am  living  in  the  Midlands 
That  are  sodden  and  unkind, 

I  light  my  lamp  in  the  evening: 
My  work  is  left  behind  ; 

And  the  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 
Come  back  into  my  mind. 


THE  SOUTH  COUNTRY 

The  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 

They  stand  along  the  sea ; 
And  it's  there  walking  in  the  high  woods 

That  I  could  wish  to  be, 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Walking  along  with  me. 

The  men  that  live  in  North  England 

I  saw  them  for  a  day: 
Their  hearts  are  set  upon  the  waste  fells. 

Their  skies  are  fast  and  grey; 
From  their  castle-walls  a  man  may  see; 

The  mountains  far  away. 
The  men  that  live  in  West  England 

They  see  the  Severn  strong, 
A-rolling  on  rough  water  brown, 

Light  aspen  leaves  along. 
They  have  the  secret  of  the  Rocks, 

And  the  oldest  kind  of  song. 

But  the  men  that  live  in  the  South  Country 

Are  the  kindest  and  most  wise, 
They  get  their  laughter  from  the  loud  surf, 

And  the  faith  in  their  happy  eyes 
Comes  surely  from  our  Sister  the  vSpring 

When  over  the  sea  she  flies; 
The  violets  suddenly  bloom  at  her  feet. 

She  blesses  us  with  surprise. 

I  never  get  between  the  pines 

But  I   smell  the  Sussex  air; 
Nor  I  never  come  on  a  belt  of  sand 

But  my  home  is  there, 


THE  SOUTH  COUNTRY 

And  along  the  sky  the  line  of  Downs 
So  noble  and  so  bare. 

A  lost  thing  could  I  never  find, 

Nor  a  broken  thing  mend : 
And  I  fear  I  shall  be  all  alone 

When  I  get  towards  the  end. 
Who  will  there  be  to  comfort  me 

Or  who  will  be  my  friend? 

I  will  gather  and  carefully  make  my  friends 
Of  the  men  of  the  Sussex  Weald, 

They  watch  the  stars  from  silent  folds, 
They  stiffly  plough  the  field. 

By  them  and  the  God  of  the  South  Country 
My  poor  soul  shall  be  healed. 

If  I  ever  become  a  rich  man. 

Or  if  .ever  I  grow  to  be  old, 
I  will  build  a  house  with  deep  thatch 

To  shelter  me  from  the  cold, 
And  there  shall  the  Sussex  songs  be  sung 

And  the  story  of  Sussex  told. 

I  will  hold  my  house  in  the  high  wood 

Within  a  walk  of  the  sea, 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Shall  sit  and  drink  with  me. 


6     THE  PROPHET  LOST  IN  THE  HILLS  A T  EVENING 

THE  EARLY  MORNING 

By  Hilaire  Belloc 

The  moon  on  the  one  hand,  the  dawn  on  the  other: 
The  moon  is  my  sister,  the  dawn  is  my  brother. 
The  moon  on  my  left  and  the  dawn  on  my  right. 
My  brother,  good  morniing:  my  sister,  good  night. 


THE  PROPHET  LOST  IN  THE  HILLS 
AT  EVENING 

By  Hilaire  Belloc 

Strong  God  which  made  the  topmost  stars 
To  circulate  and  keep  their  course, 

Remember  me;  whom  all  the  bars 
Of  sense  and  dreadful  fate  enforce. 

Above  me  in  your  heights  and  tall, 
Impassable   the  summits  freeze, 

Below  the  haunted  waters  call 
Impassable  beyond  the  trees. 

1  hunger  and  I  have  no  bread. 

My  gourd  is  empty  of  the  wine. 
Surely  the  footsteps  of  the  dead 

Are  shuffling  softly  close  to  mine! 

It  darkens.     I  have  lost  the  ford. 

There  is  a  change  on  all  things  made. 
The  rocks  have  evil  faces,  Lord, 

And  I  am  awfully  afraid. 


THE  BIRDS 

Remember  me!  the  Voids  of  Hell 
Expand  enormous  all  around. 

Strong  friend  of  souls,  Emmanuel, 
Redeem  me  from  accursed  ground. 

The  long  descent  of  wasted  days, 

To  these  at  last  have  led  me  down ; 
Remember  that  I  filled  with  praise 
The  meaningless  and  doubtful  ways 
That  lead  to  an  eternal  town. 

I  challenged  and  I  kept  the  Faith, 
The  bleeding  path  alone  I  trod; 

It  darkens.  Stands  about  my  wraith. 
And  harbour  me — almighty  God! 


THE  BIRDS 

By  Hilaire  Belloc 

When  Jesus  Christ  was  four  years  old. 
The  angels  brought  Him  toys  of  gold. 
Which  no  man  ever  had  bought  or  sold. 

And  yet  with  these  He  would  not  play. 
He  made  Him  small  fowl  out  of  clay, 
And  blessed  them  till  they  flew  away: 
Tu  creasti  Domine. 

Jesus  Christ,  Thou  child  so  wise. 
Bless  mine  hands  and  fill  mine  eyes. 
And  bring  my  soul  to  Paradise. 


COURTESY 

COURTESY 

By  Hilaire  Belloc 

Of  Courtesy,  it  is  much  less 
Than  Courage  of  Heart  or  Holiness, 
Yet  in  my  Walks  it  seems  to  me 
That  the  Grace  of  God  is  in  Courtesy. 

On  Monks  I  did  in  Storrington  fall, 
They  took  me  straight  into  their  Hall; 
I  saw  Three  Pictures  on  a  wall. 
And  Courtesy  was  in  them  all. 

The  first  Annunciation; 

The  second  the  Visitation; 

The  third  the  Consolation, 

Of  God  that  was  Our  Lady's  Son. 

The  first  was  of  Saint  Gabriel ; 

On  Wings  a-flame  from  Heaven  he  fell; 

And  as  he  went  upon  one  knee 

He  shone  with  Heavenly  Courtesy. 


Our  Lady  out  of  Nazareth  rode- 
It  was  her  month  of  heavy  load ; 


Yet  was  Her  face  both  great  and  kind, 
For  Courtesy  was  in  Her  Mind. 

The  third  it  was  our  Little  Lord, 
Whom  all  the  Kings  in  arms  adored; 
He  was  so  small  you  could  not  see 
His  large  intent  of  Courtesy. 


NOEL 

Our  Lord,  that  was  Our  Lady's  Son, 

Go  bless  you,  People,  one  by  one; 

'My  Rhyme  is  written,  my  work  is  done. 


NOEL 

By  Hilaire  Belloc 
I 
On  a  winter's  night  long  time  ago 

{The  bells  ring  loud  and  the  bells  ring  low). 
When  high  howled  wind,  and  down  fell  snow 

(Carillon,  Carilla). 
Saint  Joseph  he  and  Notre  Dame, 
Riding  on  an  ass,  full  weary  came 
From  Nazareth  into  Bethlehem, 

And  the  small  child  Jesus  smile  on  you. 

II 

And  Bethlehem  inn  they  stood  before 

{The  bells  ring  less  and  the  bells  ring  more). 
The  landlord  bade  them  begone  from  his  door 

(Carillon,  Carilla). 
"Poor  folk"  (says  he),  "must  lie  where  they  may, 
For  the  Duke  of  Jewry  comes  this  way. 
With  all  his  train  on  a  Christmas  Day." 
And  the  small  child  Jesus  smile  on  you. 

Ill 
Poor  folk  that  may  my  carol  hear 

{The  bells  ring  single  and  the  bells  ring  clear) ^ 
See!    God's  one  child  had  hardest  cheer! 

(Carillon,  Carilla). 


10  AFTER  A  RETREAT 

Men  grown  hard  on  a  Christmas  morn; 
The  dumb  beast  by  and  a  babe  forlorn. 
It  was  very,  very  cold  when  our  Lord  was  born. 
And  the  small  child  Jesusi  smile  on  you. 

IV 
Now  these  were  Jews  as  Jews  may  be 

(The  bells  ring  merry  and  the  bells  ring  free). 
But  Christian  men  in  a  band  are  we 

(Carillon,  Carilla). 
Empty  we  go,  and  ill  be-digh;t, 
Singing  Noel  on  a  Winter's  night. 
Give  us  to  sup  by  the  warm  firelight, 

And  the  small  child  Jesus  smile  on  you. 


AFTER  A  RETREAT 

By  Robert  Hugh  Benson 

What  hast  thou  learnt  to-day? 
Hast  thou  sounded  awful  mysteries, 
Hast  pierced  the  veiled  skies, 
Climbed  to  the  feet  of  God, 
Trodden  where  saints  have  trod, 
Fathomed  the  heights  above? 

Nay, 
This  only  have  I  learnt,  that  God  is  love. 

What  hast  thou  heard  to-day? 
Hast  heard  the  Angel-trumpets  cry  , 
And  rippling  harps  reply; 
Heard  from  the  Throne  of  flame 


THE  TERESIAN  CONTEMPLATIVE  H 

Whence  God  incarnate  came 
Some  thund'rous  message  roll? 

Nay, 
This  have  I  heard,  His  voice  within  my  soul. 

What  hast  thou  felt  to-day? 
The  pinions  of  the  Angel-guide 
That  standeth  at  thy  side 
In  rapturous  ardours  beat, 
Glowing,  from  head  to  feet, 
In  ecstasy  divine? 

Nay, 
This  only  have  I  felt,  Christ's  hand  in  mine. 


THE  TERESIAN  CONTEMPLATIVE 
By  Robert  Hugh  Benson 

She  moves  in  tumult;  round  her  lies 
The  silence  of  the  world  of  grace; 

The  twilight  of  our  mysteries 

Shines  like  high  noonday  on  her  face; 

Our  piteous  guesses,  dim  with  fears, 

She  touches,  handles,  sees,  and  hears. 

In  her  all  longings  mix  and  meet; 

Dumb  souls   through  her   are  eloquent; 
She  feels  the  world  beneath  her  feet 

Thrill  in  a  passionate  intent ; 
Through  her  our  tides  of  feeling  roll 
And  find  their  God  within  her  soul. 


13  HOW  SHALL  I  BUILD 

Her  faith  and  awful  Face  of  God 

Brightens  and  blinds  with  utter  light; 

Her  footsteps  fall  where  late  He  trod; 
She  sinks  in  roaring  voids  of  night; 

Cries  to  her  Lord  in  black  despair, 

And  knows,  yet  knows  not,  He  is  there. 

A  willing  sacrifice  she  takes 
The  burden  of  our  fall  within; 

Holy  she  stands;  while  on  her  breaks 
The  lightning  of  the  wrath  of  sin ; 

She  drinks  her  Saviour's  cup  of  pain, 

And,  one  with  Jesus,  thirsts  again. 


HOW  SHALL  I  BUILD 
By  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt 

How  shall  I  build  my  temple  to  the  Lord, 

Unworthy  I,  who  am  thus  foul  of  heart? 
How  sliall  I  worship  who  no  traitor  word 

Know  but  of  love  to  play  a  suppliant's  part? 

How  shall  I  pray,  whose  soul  is  as  a  mart, 
For  thoughts  unclean,  whose  tongue  is  as  a  sword 

Even  for  those  it  loves,  to  wound  and  smart? 
Behold  how  little  I  can  help  Thee,  Lord. 

The  Temple  I  would  build  should  be  all  white. 
Each  stone  the  record  of  a  blameless  day ; 

The  souls  that  entered  there  should  walk  in  light, 
Clothed  in  hig*h  chastity  and  wisely  gay. 

Lord,  here  is  darkness.    Yet  this  heart  unwise, 

Bruised  in  Thy  service,  take  in  sacrifice. 


SONG  13 

SONG 

By  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt 

O  FLY  not,  Pleasure,  pleasant-hearted  Pleasure; 
Fold  me  thy  wings,  I  prithee,  yet  and  slay : 

For  "my  heart  no  measure 

Knows,  or  other  treasure 
To  buy  a  garland  for  my  love  to-day. 

And  thou,  too,  Sorrow,  tender-hearted  Sorrow, 
Thou  gray-eyed  mourner,  fly  not  yet  away : 

For  I  fain  would  borrow 

Thy  sad  weeds  to-morrow, 
To  make  a  mourning  for  love's  yesterday. 

The  voice  of  Pity,  Time's  divine  dear  Pity, 
Moved  me  to  tears :  I  dared  not  say  them  nay, 
But  passed  forth  from  the  city. 
Making  thus  my  ditty 
Of  fair  love  lost  forever  and  a  day. 


THE  DESOLATE  CITY 

By  Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt 

Dark  to  me  is  the  earth.    Dark  to  me  are  the  heavens. 
Where  is   she  that  I  loved,  the  woman  with  .eyes 
like  stars?? 
Desolate  are  the  streets.     Desolate  is  the  city. 
A  city  taken  by  storm,  where  none  are  left  but  the 
slain. 


14  THE  DESOLATE  CITY 

Sadly  I  rose  at  da!wi>,  undid'  the  latch  of  my  shutters, 

Thinking  to  let  in  light,  "but  I  only  let  in  love. 
Birds  in  the  houghs  were  awake;  I  listen'd  to  their 

chaunting; 
Each  one  sang  to  his  love ;  only  I  was  alone. 

This,   I   said   in    my   heart,   is   the   hour  of   life   and 
pleasure. 
Now  eadh  creature  on  earth  has  his  joy,  and  lives 
in  the  sun. 
Each  in  another's  eyes  finds  light,  the  light  of  com- 
passion, 
This  is  the  moment  of  pity,  this  is  the  moment  of 
love. 
Speak,  O  desolate  city !    Speak,  O  silence  in  sadness ! 
Where  is  she  that  loved  in  my  strength,  that  spoke 
to  my  soul? 
Where  are  those  passionate  eyes  that  appealed  to  my 
eyes  in  passion? 
Where  is  the  mouth  that  kiss'd  me,  the  breast  that 
I  laid  to  my  own? 

Speak,  thou  soul  of  my  soul,  for  rage  in  my  heart  is 
kindled. 
Tell  me,  where  didst  thou  flee  in  the  day  of  destruc- 
tion and  fear? 
See,  my  arms  enfold  thee,  enfolding  thus  all  heaven, 
See,  my  desire  is  fulfilled  in  thee,  for  it  fills  the 
earth. 

Thus  in  my  grief  I  lamented.     Then  turned  I  from 
the  window, 
Turn'd   to  the  stair,  and   the  open   door,   and  the 
empty  street. 


MEA  CULPA  19 

MEA  CULPA 
By  Ethna  Carbery 

iBe  pitiful,  my  God! 

No  hard-won  gifts  I  'bring — 
But  empty,  pleading  hands 

To  Thee  at  evening. 

Spring  came,  white-browed  and  young, 

I,  too,  was  young  with  Spring. 
There  was  a  blue,  blue  heaven 

Above  a  skylark's  wing. 

Youth  is  the  time  for  joy, 

I  cried,  it  is  not  meet 
To  mount  the  heights  of  toil 

With  child-soft  feet. 

When  Summer  walked  the  land 

In  Passion's  red  arrayed, 
Under  green  sweeping  boughs 

My  couch  I  made. 

The  noon-tide  heat  was  sore, 

I  slept  the  Summer  through; 
An  angel  waked  me — "Thou 

Hast  work  to  do." 

I  rose  and  saw  the  sheaves 

Upstanding  in  a  row; 
The  reapers  sang  Thy  praise 
While  passing  to  and  fro. 


20  IN'  TIR-NA'N-OG 

My  hands  were  soft  with  ease, 
Long  were  the  Autumn  hours; 

I  left  the  ripened  sheaves 
For  poppy-flowers. 

But  lo!  now  Winter  glooms, 
And  gray  is  in  my  hair, 

Whither  has  flown  the  world 
I  found  so  fair? 

My  patient  God,  forgive! 

Praying  Thy  pardon  sweet 
I  lay  a  lonely  heart 

Before  Thy  feet. 


IN  TIR-NA'N-OG 

By  Ethna  Career y 

In  Tir-nan-Og, 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

Summer  and  spring  go  hand  in  hand,  and  in  the  radiant 

weather 
Brown   autumn  leaves  and   winter   snow  come  floating 
down  together. 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 
The  sagans  sway  this  way  and  that,  the  twisted   fern 

uncloses, 
The  <juicken-berry  hides  its  red  above  the  tender  rpses. 


IN  TIR-NA'N-OG  21 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

The  blackbird  lilts,  the  robin  chirps,  the  linnet  wearies 

never. 
They  pipe  to  dancing  feet  of  Sidhe  and  thus  shall  pipe 
forever. 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

All  in  a  drift  of  apple  blooms  my  true  love  there  is 

roaming, 
He  will  not  come  although  I  pray  from  dawning  until 
gloaming. 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

The  Sidhe  desired  my  Heart's  Delight,  they  lured  him 

from  my  keeping, 
He  stepped  within  a  fairy  ring  while  all  the  world  was 
sleeping. 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

He  hath  forgotten  hill  and  glen  where  misty  shadows 

gather, 
The  bleating  of  the  mountain  sheep,  the  cabin  of  his 
father. 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

He   wanders  in  a   happy    dream  thro'   scented   golden 

hours. 
He   flutes,  to   woo   a    fairy   love,  knee   deep    in    fairy 
^Ower§, 


33  LADY  DAY  IN  IRELAND 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

In  Tir-na'n-Og, 

No  memory  hath  he  of   my   face,  no  sorrow    for   my 

sorrow, 
My  flax  is  spun,  my  wheel  is  hushed,  and  so  I  wait  the 
morrow. 


LADY  DAY  IN  IRELAND 
By  P,  J.  Carroll,  C.S.C. 

Through  the  long  August  day,  mantled  blue  with  a  sky 
of  Our  Lady, 
They  are  there  at  the  well  from  the  dawn  till  the 
sea  birds  go  home; 
And  the  trees  bending  down  with  broad  leaves  offer 
spots  that  are  shady, 
Where  the  heart  is  at  rest,  sighing  prayers  till  the 
shadows  are  com'e. 

The  brown  beads  and  the  crucifix  pass  in  procession 
through  fingers 
That  are  pale  as  the  snow  or  are  hardened  from 
labor  and  pain. 
In  each  Ave  they  whisper  the   deep  Celtic  tenderness 
lingers. 
Like  a  sweet  phrase  in  song  that   is  echoed  and 
echoed  again. 

Marching  down  the  white  road  with  the  sun  in  the 
noon  of  his  splendor 
Are  the  children,  witli  joy  in  the  blue  of  their  in- 
nocent eyes; 


ST.  PATRICK'S  TREASURE  23 

In  their  hearts   is   a   song,   breaking   forth  into   words 
that  are  tender, 
Unto  her  with  the  gold  of  the  stars  and  the  blue  of 
the  skies. 

In  the  still  summer  air  there's  a  chorus  of  minstrelsy 
breaking, 
There  are  flashes  of  gfold  with  a  flutter  and  waving 
of  wings : 
Mary's  birds  are  they,  come  with  the  dawn,  all  the 
green  woods  forsaking. 
Every  heart  in    them  breaking  for  love  with  the 
message  it  brings. 

Through  the  calm  August  day,  with  Our  Lady's  blue 
sky  far  above  them, 
And  beyond  the  grey  mountains  where  slumbers  the 
Irish  green  sea, 
There  they  speak  to  her,  weep  while  they  pray  to  her, 
beg  her  to  love  them. 
Till  beyond  the  bright  stars  where  their  hom.e  and 
their  treasure  shall  be. 


ST.  PATRICK'S  TREASURE 
By  p.  J.  Carroll,  C.S.C. 

Called  son  by  many  lands, 

Thou  art  a  father  unto  one. 
Of  all  these  mothers  claiming  thee, 
By  honored  titles  naming  thee. 

We  ask:   Where  is  thy  priceless  birthright  gone? 


24  THE  SPOUSE  OF  CHRIST. 

That  blessed  faith  of  thine. 

They  mothering  thee  have  sold. 
But  she,  thy  daughter  dutiful, 
Has  kept  thy  treasure  beautiful 

Through  many  sorrows  in  her  heart  of  gold. 


THE  SPOUSE  OF  CHRIST 

By  D.  a.  Casey 

He  came  to  her  from  out  eternal  years, 

A  smile  upon  His  lips,  a  tender  smile 

That,  somehow,  spoke  of  partings  and  of  tears. 

'Twas  eventide,  and  silence  brooded  low 
On  earth  and  sky — the  hour  when  haunting  fears 
Of  mystery  pursue  us  as  we  go- 
Strange,  mystic  shadows  filled  the  temple  dim. 
But  on  the  Golden  Door  the  ruby  glow 
Spoke  orisons  more  sweet  than  vesper  hymn. 

No  human  accents  voiced  His  gentle  call. 
No  crashing  thunderbolts  did  wait  on  Him, 
As  when  of  old  He  deigned  to  summon  Saul. 

But  heart  did  speak  to  heart,  an  unseen  chord 

In  Love's  own  scale  did  sweetly  rise  and  fall ; 

Nor  questioned  she,  *but  meekly  answered  "Lord!" 

To-night  some  household  counts  a  vacant  chair. 
But  far  on  high  Christ  portions  the  reward, 
A  hundred-fold  for  each  poor  human  care. 


AN  OLD  WOMAN   OF   THE  ROADS  25 

CHRIST  THE  COMRADE 

By  Padraic  Colum 

Christ,  by  Thine  own  darkened  hour 
Live  within  my  heart  and  brain! 
Let  my  hands  not  slip  the  rein. 

Ah,  how  long  ago  it  is 
Since  a  comrade  rode  with  me! 
Now  a  moment  let  me  see 

Thyself,  lonely  in  the  dark, 
Perfect,  without  wound  or  mark. 

AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  ROADS 
By  Padraic  Colum 

Oh,  to  have  a  little  house, 

To  own  the  hearth  and  stool  and  all — 
The  heaped-up  sods  upon  the  fire, 

The  pile  of  turf  against  the  wall! 

To  have  a  clock  with  weights  and  chains, 
And  pendulum  swinging  up  and  down  I 

A  dresser  filled  with  shining  delph. 

Speckled  and  white  and  blue  and  brown! 

I  could  be  busy  all  the  day 

Clearing  and  sweeping  hearth  and  floor, 
And  fixing  on  their  shelf  again 

My  white  and  blue  speckled  store. 


36  THE  HEAVIEST  CROSS  OF  ALL 

I  could  be  quiet  there  at  night 

Beside  the  fire  and  by  myself, 
Sure  of  a  bed,  and  loth  to  leave 

The  tickling  clock  and  shining  delph. 

Och !  but  I'm  weary  of  mist  and  dark, 

And  roads  where  there's  never  a  house  or  bush, 

And  tired  I  am  of  bog  and  road, 

And  the  crying  wind  and  the  lonesome  hush. 

And  I  am  praying  to  God  on  high. 
And  I  am  praying  Him  night  and  day. 

For  a  little  house — a  house  of  my  own — 
Out  of  the  wind's  and  the  rain's  way. 


THE  HEAVIEST  CROSS  OF  ALL 
By  Katherine  Eleanor  Conway 

I've  borne  full  many  a  sorrow,   I've  suffered  many  a 

loss 

But  now,  with  a  strange,  new  anguish,  I  carry  this  last 

dread  cross; 
For  of  this  be  sure,  my;  dearest,  whatever  thy  life 

befall, 
The  cross  that  our  own  hands  fashion  is  the  heaviest 

cross  of  all. 

Heavy  and  hard  I  made  it  in  the  days  of  my  fair 

strong  youth, 
Veiling  mine  eyes  from  the  blessed  light,  and  closing 

my  heart  to  truth. 


THE  HEAVIEST  CROSS  OF  ALL  37 

Pity    me,    Lord,    whose    mercy    passeth    my    wildest 

thought, 
For  I  never  dreamed  of  the  bitter  end  of  the  work  my 

hands  had  wrought! 

In  the  sweet  morn's  flush  and  fragrance  I  wandered 

o'er  dewy  meadows, 
And  I  hid  from  the  fervid  noontide  glow  in  the  cool 

green  woodland  shadows ; 
And  I  never  recked,  as  I   sang  aloud  in  my  wilful, 

selfish  glee, 
Of  the  mighty  woe  that  was  drawing  nigh  to  darken 

the  world  for  me. 

But    it    came    at   last,    my   dearest — what   need   to    tell 

thee  how? 
Mayst  never  know  of  the  wild,  wild  woe  that  my  heart 

is  bearing  now ! 
Over  my  summer's  glory  crept  a  damp  and  chilling 

shade, 
And  I  staggered  under  the  heavy  cross  that  my  sinful 

hands  had  made. 

T  go  where  the  shadows  deepen,  and  the  end  seems 

far  ofif  yet — 
God  keep  thee  safe  from  the  sharing  of  this  woeful 

late  regret ! 
For  of  this  be  sure,  my  dearest,  whatever  thy   life 

befall. 
The    crosses    we   make   for  ourselves,   alas !   are   the 

heaviest  ones  of  all. 


38  SATURNINWS 

SATURNINUS 

By  Katherine  Eleanor  Conway 

He  might  have  won  the  highest  guerdon  that  heaven  to 

earth  can  give, 
For  whoso  falleth  for  justice — dying,  he  yet  shall  live. 

He  might  have  left  us  his  memory  to  flame  as  a  beacon 

light, 
When  clouds  of  the  false  world's  raising  shut  the  stars 

of  heaven  from  sight. 

He  might  have  left  us  his  name  to  ring  in  our  triumph 

song 
When  we   stand,  as  we'll  stand  at  to-morrow's  dawn, 

by  the  grave  of  a  world-old  wrong. 

For  he  gave  thee,  O  mother  of  valiant  sons,  thou  fair, 

and  sore  oppressed, 
The  love  of  his  youth  and  his  manhood's  choice — 

first— fruits  of  his  life,  and  best. 

Thine  were  throb  of  his  heart  and  thought  of  his  brain 

and  toil  of  his  strong  right  hand; 
For  thee  he  braved  scorn  and   reviling,  and  loss  of 

gold  and  land, 

Threat  and  lure  and  false-hearted  friend,  and  blight " 

of  a  broken  word — 
Terrors  of  night  and  delay  of  light — prison  and  rack 

and  sword. 


DREAMING  OF  CITIES  DEAD  29 

For   thee    he   bade   death   defiance — till   the   heavens 

opened  wide, 
And  his  face  grew  bright  with  reflex  of  light  from  the 

face  of  the  Crucified. 

And  his  crown  was  in  sight  ^nd  his  palm  in  reach  and 

his  glory  all  but  won, 
And  then — he  failed — God  help  us !  with  the  worst  of 

dying  done. 

Only  to  die  on  the  treacherous  down  by  the  hands  of 

the  tempters  spread — ■ 
Nay,  nay — make  way  for  the  strangers !  we  have  no 

right  in  the  dead. 

But  oh,  for  the  beacon  quenched,  that  we  dreamed 

wo'uld  kindle  and  flame ! 
And  oh,  for  the  standard  smirched  and  shamed,  and 

the  name  we  dare  not  nam»! 

Over  the  lonesome  grave  the  shadows  gather  fast; 
Only  the  mother,  like  God,  forgives,  and  comforts  her 
heart  with  the  past. 


DREAMING  OF  CITIES  DEAD 

By  Eleanor  Rogers  Cox 

Dreaming  of  cities  dead. 

Of  bright  Queens  vanished. 

Of  kings  whose  names  were  but  as  seed  wind-blown 

E'en  when  white  Patrick's  voice  shook  Tara's  throne, 

My  way  along  the  great  world-street  I  tread, 

And  keep  the  rites  'o'f  Beauty  lost,  alone. 


30  DEATH  OF  CUCHULAIN 

Cairns  level  with  the  dust — 

Names  dim  with  Time's  dull  rust — 

Afar  they  sleep  on  many  a  wind-swept  hill, 

The  beautiful,  the  strong  of  heart  and  will — 

On  whose  pale  dreams  no  sunrise  joy  shall  burst, 

No  harper's  song  shall  pierce  with  battle-thrill. 

Long  from  their  purpled  heights. 

Their  reign  of  high  delights, 

The   Queens   have   wended   down   Death's   mildewed 

stair, 
Leaving  a  scent  of  lilies  on  the  air, 
To  gladden  Earth  through  all  her  days  and  nights. 
That  once  she  cherished  anything  so  fair. 


DEATH  OF  CUCHULAIN 
By  Eleanor  Rogers  Cox 

Silent  are  the  singers  in  the  purple  halls  of  Emain, 
Silent  all  the  harp-strings  untouched  of  any  hand, 

Wan  as  twilight  roses  the  radiant,  royal  women, 
Black  unto  the  hearthstone  the  erstwhile  flaming  brand. 

Inward  far  from  ocean  the  storm's  white  birds  are 
flying, 
Darting,  like  dim  wraith  flames  across  the  falling  night. 
Winds  like   a  caoine  through   the  quicken  groves   are 
sighing, 
On  no  lip  is  laughter,  in  no  heart  delight. 


DEATH  OF  CUCHULAIN  31 

For  thitherwards  witch-wafted  athwart  the  sundering 
spaces, 
Lo,   a    word    doom-freighted   unto    Conchubar   has 
come, 
Whispering  of  one  who  in  far-off,  hostile  places 
Strikes  a  last  defending  blow  for  king  and  home. 

And  the  King  pacing  lone  in  his  place  of  High  Decision, 
Gazing  with  rapt  eyes  on  that  far-flung  battle-plain. 

Through   the   red   rains  rising  beholds  with    startled 
vision 
Sight  such  as  man's  eye  shall  not  see  again. 

For  one  there  is  dying,  of  his  foes  at  last  outnumbered, 
One  whose  soul  a  sword  was,  shaped  by  God's  own 
hand. 
One   who  guarded   Ukidh  when   all   her  knighthood 
slumbered, 
Prone  beneath  the  curse  laid  of  old  upon  the  land. 

And  dying  so,  alone,  of  all  mortal  aid  forsaken, 
Dead  his  peerless  war  steeds,  dead  his  charioteer. 

Yet  the  high  splendor  of  his  spirit  all  unshaken. 
Shines    morning-bright    through    the    Death-mists 
drawing  near. 

And   radiant  round   his   brow   yet  the   hero-flame   is 
gleaming, 

And  firm  yet  his  footstep  upon  the  reddened  sod. 
As  with  sword  uplifted  towards  the  day's  last  beaming, 

Forth  goes  the  spirit  of  Cuchulaip  iinto  God, 


32  GODS  AND  HEROES  OF  THE  GAEL 

Leaving  to  his  land  and  the  -Celtic  race  forever 

That  which  shall  not  fail  them  throughout  the  fading 
years, 
Heritage  of  faith  unchanged,  of  fear^undimmed   en- 
deavor, 
And  a  quenchless  laughter  ringing  down  the  edge 
of  hostile  spears. 


GODS  AND  HEROES  OF  THE  GAEL 

By  Eleanor  Rogers  Cox 

Forth  in  shining  phalanx  marching  from  the  shrouding 
mists  of  time, 
Bright  the  sunlight  on  their  foreheads,  bright  upon 
their  golden  mail, 
Lords  of  beauty,  lords  of  valor,  lords  of  Earth's  un- 
conquered  prime, 
Come  the  gods,  the  kings,  the  heroes  of  the  Gael. 

Lugh,  the  splendor  of  whose  shining  lit  the  forest  and 
the  fen, 
He    whose    smile   at   first   illuming   all    the    shadow- 
haunted  space 
Of  the  vast,  primeval  ranges,  death-engirdled,  shunned 
of  men. 
Over  virgin  seas  to  Erin  led  our  race. 

Mananaan,  great  lord  of  Ocean — he  whose  fair  domain 
outspread 
Wheresoever  tides  foam-flowered  to  the  moon's  high 
mandate  move. 


GODS  AND  HEROES  OF  THE  GAEL  33 

Aengus,  clothed  in  youth  immortal,  on  immortal  ardors 
fed, 
Who  of  old  in  golden  Brugh  reigned  lord  of  Love. 

And  his  name  a  knightly  pennon  on  the  ramparts  of 
the  world. 
And  his  fame  a  fire  unfailing  on  Time's  utmost  purple 
height, 
Erin's   peerless  gage  of   courage   to  the   vaunting   ages 
hurled — 
Sunward  evermore  Cuchulain  holds  his  flight. 

They  are  coming  with  the  silver  speech  of  Erin  on 
their  lips; 
The  speech  that  once  of  all  the  mighty  Celtic  race 
made  kin. 
They  are  coming  with  the  laughter  that  has  known  no 
age-eclipse. 
They  are  coming  with  the  songs  beloved  of  Finn. 

Yea,  with  gifts  regenerating  to   all  men  of  women 
born — 
Flame  of  courage  that  shall  fade  not,  flame  of  truth 
that  shall  not  fail, 
To  the  music  of  a  thousand  harps  they're  marching 
through  the  Morn, 
Deathless  gods  and  kings  and  heroes  of  the  Gael ! 


34  AT  BENEDICTION 

AT  BENEDICTION 
By  Eleanor  Rogers  Cox 

Joy,  beauty,  awe,  supremest  worship  blending 

In  one  long  breath  of  perfect  ecstasy. 
Song  from  our  hearts  to  God's  own  Heart  ascending, 

The  mortal  merged  in  immortality. 
There,  veiled  beneath  that  sacramental  whiteness, 

The  wonder  that  all  wonders  doth  transcend, 
The  Word  that  kindled  chaos  into  brightness, 

Our  Lord,  our  God,  our  origin,  our  end. 

Light,  light,  a  sea  of  light,  unshored,  supernal. 

Is  all  about  our  finite  being  spread, 
Deep,  soundless  waves  of  harmonies  eternal 

Their  balm  celestial  on  our  spirits  shed. 
O  Source  of  Life !    O  Fount  of  waters  living ! 

O  Love,  to  whom  all  powers  of  mind  and  soul. 
We  give,  and  find'  again  within  the  giving, 

Of  Thee  renewed,  made  consecrate  and  whole. 


PRIMROSE  HILL 

By  Olive  Custance 

Wild  heart  in  me  that  frets  and  grieves, 
Imprisoned  here  against  your  will  .  .  . 
Sad  heart  that  dreams  of  rainbow  wings 
S6e<!    I  have  found  some  golden  things! 
The  poplar  trees  on  Primrose  Hill 


TWILIGHT  35 

With  all  their  shining  play  of  leaves  .  .  . 
And  London  like  a  silver  bride, 
That  will  not  put  her  veil  aside ! 

Proud  London  like  a  painted  Queen, 
Whose  crown  is  heavy  on  her  head  .  .  . 
City  of  sorrow  and  desire, 
Under  a  sky  of  opal  fire. 
Amber  and  amethyst  and  red  .  .  . 
And  how  divine  the  day  has  been ! 
For  every  dawn  God  builds  again 
This  world  of  beauty  and  of  pain.  .  . 

Wild  heart  that  hungers  for  delight, 
Imprisoned  here  against  your  will; 
Sad  heart,  so  eager  to  be  gay ! 
Loving  earth's  lovely  things  .  .  .  the  play 
Of  wind  and  leaves  on  Primrose  Hill  .  .  . 
Or  London  dreaming  of  the  night  .  .  . 
Adventurous  heart,  on  beauty  bent, 
That  only  Heaven  could  quite  content ! 


TWILIGHT 

By  Olive  Custance 

Spirit  of  Twilight,  through  your  folded  wings 
I  catch  a  glimpse  of  your  averted  face, 

And  rapturous  on  a  sudden,  my  soul  sings 
"Is  not  this  common  earth  a  holy  place?" 


36  TO  A   THRUSH 

Spirit  of  Twilight,  you  are  like  a  song 

That  sleeps,  and  waits  a  singer, — like  a  hymn 

That  God  finds  lovely  and  keeps  near  Him  long, 
Till  it  is  choired  by  aureoled  cherubim. 

Spirit  of  Twilight,  in  the  golden  gloom 

Of  dreamland  dim  I  sought  you,  and  I  found 

A  woman  sitting  in  a  silent  room 

Full  of  white  flowers  that  moved  and  made  no  sound. 

These  white  flowers  were  th«  thoughts  you  bring  to  all, 
And  the  room's  name  is  Mystery  where  you  sit, 

Woman  whom  we  call  Twilight,  when  night's  pall 
You  lift  across  our  Earth  to  cover  it. 


TO  A  THRUSH 
^Y  T.  A.  Daly 

Sing  clear,  O !  throstle, 

Thou  golden-tongued  apostle 
And  little  brown- f rocked  brother 

Of  the  loved  Assisian ! 
Sing  courage  to  the  mother, 

Sing  strength  into  the  man, 
For  they,  who  in  another  May 

Trod  Hope's  scant  wine  from  grapes  of  pain, 
Have  tasted  in  thy  song  to-day 

The  bitter-sweet  red  lees  again. 
To  them  in  whose  sad  May-time  thou 
Sang'st  comfort  from  thy  maple  bough. 


TO  A   THRUSH  37 

To  tinge  the  presaged  dole  with  sweet, 
O!  prophet  then,  be  prophet  now 
And  paraclete! 

That  fateful  May !    The  pregnant  vernal  night 

Was  throbbing  with  the  first  faint  pangs  of  day, 
The  while  with  ordered  urge  toward  life  and  light, 

Earth-atoms  countless  groped  their  destined  way; 
And  one  full-winged  to  fret 
Its  tender  oubliette, 
The  warding  mother-heart  above  it  woke, 

Darkling  she  lay  in  doubt,  then,  sudden  wise, 
Whispered  her  husband's  drowsy  ear  and  broke 

The  estranging  seal  of  slumber  from  his  eyes : 

"My  hour  is  nigh :  arise !" 

Already,  when,  with  arms  for  comfort  linked. 

The  lovers  at  an  eastward  window  stood, 
The  rosy  day,  in  cloudy  swaddlings,  blinked 

Through  misty  green  new-fledged  in  Wister  Wood. 
Breathless  upon  this  birth 
The  still-entranced  earth 
Seemed  brooding,  motionless  in  windless  space. 

Then  rose  thy  priestly  chant,  O !  holy  bird ! 
And  heaven  and  earth  were  quickened  with  its  grace ; 

To  tears  two  wedded  souls  were  moved  who  heard, 

And  one,  un'born,  was  stirred! 

O  !  Comforter,  enough  that  from  thy  green 

Hid  tabernacle  in  the  wood's  recess 
To  those  care-haunted  lovers  thou,  unseen, 

Should'st  send  thy  flame-tipped  song  to  cheer  and  bless. 
Enough  for  them  to  hear 


38  TO  A  THRUSH 

And  feel  thy  presence  near; 
And  yet  when  he,  regardful  of  her  ease, 

Had  led  her  back  by  brightening  hall  and  stair 
To  her  own  chamber's  quietude  and  peace, 

One  maple^bowered  window  shook  with  rare, 

Sweet  song — and  thou  wert  there! 

Hunter  of  souls !  the  loving  chase  so  nigh 

Those  spirits  twain  had  never  come  before. 
They  saw  the  sacred  flame  within  thine  eye ; 

To  them  the  maple's  depths  quick  glory  wore, 
As  though  God's  hand  had  lit 
His  altar-fire  in  it, 
And  made  a  fane,  of  virgin  verdure  pleached, 

Wherefrom  thou  might'st  in  numbers  musical 
Expound  the  age-sweet  words  thy  Francis  preached 

To  thee  and  thine,  of  God's  benignant  thrall 

That  broodeth  over  all. 

And  they,  athirst  for  comfort,  sipped  thy  song, 

But  drank  not  yet  thy  deeper  homily. 
Not  yet,  but  when  parturient  pangs  grew  strong, 

And  from  its  cell  the  young  soul  struggled  free- 
A  new  joy,  trailing  grief, 
A  little  crumpled  leaf, 
Blighted  before  it  burgeoned  from  the  stem — 

Thou,  as  the  fabled  robin  to  the  rood, 
Wert  minister  of  charity  to  them ; 

And  from  the  shadows  of  sad  parenthood 

They  heard  and  understood. 

Makes  God  one  soul  a  lure  for  snaring  three  ? 
Ah!  surely;  so  this  nursling  of  the  nest, 


TO  A  THRUSH  39 

This  teen-touched  joy,  ere  birth  anoint  of  thee, 
Yet  bears  thy  chrismal  music  in  her  breast. 
Five  Mays  have  come  and  sped 
Above  her  sunny  head, 
And  still  the  happy  song  abid'es  in  her. 

For  though  on  maimed  limbs  the  body  creeps, 
It  doth  a  spirit  house  whose  pinions  stir 
Familiarly  the  far  cerulean  steeps 
Where  God  His  mansion  keeps. 

So  come,  O !  throstle, 
Thou  golden-tongued  apostle 
And  little  brown-frocked  brother 

Of  the  loved  Assisian ! 
Sing  courage  to  the  mother, 

Sing  strength  into  the  man, 
That  she  who  in  another  May 

Came  out  of  heaven,  trailing  care. 
May  never  know  that  sometimes  gray 

Earth's  roof  is  and  its  cupboards  bare. 
To  them  in  whose  sad  May-time  thou 
Sang'st  comfort  and  thy  maple  bough, 

To  tinge  the  presaged  dole  with  sweet, 
O !  prophet  then,  be  prophe^  now 

And  paraclete! 


40  TO  A  ROBIN 

TO  A  PLAIN  SWEETHEART 
By  T.  a.  Daly 

I  LOVE  thee,  dear,  for  what  thou  art, 
Nor  would  I  wish  thee  otherwise, 

For  when  thy  lashes  lift  apart 

I  read,  deep-mirrored  in  thine  eyes, 

The  glory  of  a  modest  heart. 

Wert  thou  as  fair  as  thou  art  good. 

It  were  not  given  to  any  man, 
With  daring  eyes  of  flesh  and  blood. 

To  look  thee  in  the  face  and  scan 
The  splendor  of  thy  womanhood. 

TO  A  ROBIN 

By  T.  a.  Daly 

I  HEARD  thee,  joyous  votary. 

Pour  forth  thy  heart  in  one 
Sweet  simple  strain  of  melody 

To  greet  the  rising  sun. 
When   he  across  the  morning's  verge  his  first  faint 

flare  had  flung 
And   found  the  crimson  of  thy  breast  the  whisp'ring 
leaves  among. 

In  thine  own  tree 
Which  sheltered  thee, 
Thy  mate,  thy  nest,  thy  young. 


THE  POET  _  41 

I  marked  thee,  sorrow's  votary, 

When  in  the  noon  of  day 
Young  vandals  stormed,  thy  sacred  tree 

And  bore  thine  all  away; 
The  notea  of  grief  that  rent  thy  breast  touched  kindred 

chords  in  mine, 
For  memories   of  other  days,  though   slumbering  still 
confine 

In  mine  own  heart 
The  bitter  smart 
Of  sorrow  such  as  thine. 

I  hear  thee  now,  sweet  votary, 

Beside  thy  ruined  nest, 
Lift  up  thy  flood  of  melody 
Against  the  crimsoned  west. 
Forgetful  of  all  else  in  this,  thy  one  sweet  joyous  strain. 
I  thank  thee  for  this  ecstasy  of  my  remembered  pain ; 
Thou  iiftest  up 
My  sorrow's  cup 
To  sweeten  it  again. 


THE  POET 

By  T.  a.  Daly 

The  truest  poet  is  not  one 
Whose  golden  fancies  fuse  and  run 
To  moulded  phrases,  'crusted  o'er 
With  flashing  gems  of  metaphor; 
Whose  art,  responsive  to  his  will, 
Mak^s  voluble  the  thoughts  that  fill 


42  OCTOBER 

The  cultured  windings  of  his  brain, 
Yet  takes  no  soundings  of  the  pain, 
The  joy,  the  yearnings  of  the  heart 
Untrammeled  by  the  bonds  of  art, 
O !  poet  truer  far  than  he 
Is  such  a  one  as  you  may  be, 
When  in  the  quiet  night  you  keep 
Mute  vigil  on  the  marge  of  sleep. 

If  then,  With  beating  heart,  you  mark 
God's  nearer  presence  in  the  dark, 
And  musing  on  the  wondrous  ways 
Of  Him  who  numbers  all  your  days. 
Pay  tribute  'to  Him  with  your  tears 
For  joys,  for  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears 
Which  he  has  blessed  and  given  to  you. 
You  are  the  poet,  great  and  true. 
For  there  are  songs  within  the  heart 
Whose  perfect  melody  no  art 
Can  teach  the  tongue  of  man  to  phrase. 
These  are  the  songs  His  poets  raise, 
When  in  the  night  they  keep 
Mute  vigil  on  the  marge  of  sleep. 


OCTOBER 

By  T.  A.  Daly 

Come,   forsake   your   city   street! 
Come  to  God's  own  fields  and  meet 

October. 
Not  the  lean,  unkempt  and  brown 


SORROW  ^? 

Counterfeit  that  haunts  the  town, 
Pointing,  like  a  thing  of  gloom, 
At  dead  summer  in  her  ton>b ; 
Reading  in  each  fallen  leaf 
Nothing  but  regret  and  grief. 
Come  out,  where,  beneath  the  blue. 
You  may  frolic  with  the  true 
October. 

Call  his  name  and  mark  the  sound. 
Opulent  and  full  and  round: 

"Ootdber." 
Come,  and  gather  from  his  hand 
Lavish  largesse  of  the  land; 
Read  in  his  prophetic  eyes, 
Clear  as  skies  of  paradise, 
Not  of  summer  days  that  died, 
But  of  summer  fructified! 
Hear,  O  soul,  his  message  sweet. 
Come  to  God's  own  fields  and  meet 
October. 


SORROW 
By  Aubrey  De  Verb 

Count  each  affliction,   whether  light  or  grave, 
God's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee ;  do  thou 

With  courtesy  receive  him;  rise  and  bow; 

And,  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  threshold,  crave 

Permission  first  His  heavenly  feet  to  lave; 
Then  lay  before  Him  all  thou  hast;  allow 


44  HUMAN  LIFE 

No  cloud  or  passion  to  usurp  thy  brow. 
Or  mar  thy  hospitality ;  no  wave 

Of  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 

Thy  soul's  marmoreal  calmness.    Grief  should  be 
Like  joy,  majestic,  equable,  sedate; 

Confirming,  cleansing,  raising,  making  free; 
Strong  to  consume  small  troubles ;  to  commend 
Great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts,  thoughts  lasting  to  the 
end. 


HUMAN  LIFE 

By  Aubrey  De  Vere 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 
Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet; 
Sad  is  our  li'fe,  for  onward  it  is  flowing. 
In  current  unperceived  because  so  fleet; 
Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  they  ivere  sweet  in  sowing, 
But  tares,  self-sown,  have  overtopped  the  wheat; 
Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in  blowing; 
And  still,  O  still,  their  dying  breath  is  sweet; 
And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  bereft  us 
Of  that  which  made  our  childhood  sweeter  still; 
And  sweeter  our  life's  decline,  for  it  hath  left  us 
A  nearer  Good  to  cure  an  older  111 ; 
And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to_  prize  thern 
Not  forJ:heir  sake,  but  His  who  grants  them  or  denies 
them. 


SONG  45 

CARDINAL  MANNING 

By  Aubrey  De  Vere 

I  learn'd  his  greatness  first  at  Lavington: 

The  moon  had  early  sought  her  bed  of  brine, 

But  we  discours'd  till  now  each  starry  sign 

Had  sunk:  our  theme  was  one  and  one  alone: 

"Two  minds  supreme,"  he  said,  "our  earth  has  known; 

One  sang  in  science ;  one  served  God  in  song  ; 

Aquinas — 'Dante."     Slowly  in  me  grew  strong 

A  thought,  "These  two  great  minds  in  him  are  one ; 

'Lord,  what  shall  'this  man  do?' "    Later  at  Rome 

Beside  the  dust  of  Peter  and  of  Paul 

Eight  hundred  mitred  sires  of  Christendom 

In  Council  sat.    I  mark'd  him  'mid  them  all ; 

I  thought  of  that  long  night  in  years  gone  by 

And  cried,  "At  last  my  question  meets  reply." 


SONG 

By  Aubrey  De  Vere 

Seek  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark 

And  balmiest  bud, 
To  carve  her  name  while  yet  'tis  dark 

Upon  the  wood ! 
The  world  is  full  of  noble  tasks 

And  wreaths  hard  won: 
Each   work  demands   strong  hearts,   strong  hands, 

Till  day  is  done. 


46  THE  SONS  OF  PATRICK 

Sing  not  that  violet-veined  skin, 

That  cheek's  pale  roses, 
The  lily  of  that  form  wherein 

Her  soul  reposes ! 
Forth  to  the  fight,  true  man !  true  knight ! 

The  clash  of  arms 
Shall  more  prevail  than  whisper'd  tale, 

To  win  her  charms. 

The  Warrior  for  the  True,  the  Right, 

Fights  in  Love's  name; 
The  love  that  lures  thee  from-tthat  flight 

Lures  thee  to  shame: 
That  love  which  lifts  the  heart,  yet  leaves 

The  spirit  free, — 
That  love,  or  none,  is  fit  for  one 

Man-shap'd  like  thee. 


THE  SONS  OF  PATRICK 
By  James  B.  Dollard 

Into  the  mists  of  the  Pagan  island 
Bearing  God's  message  great  Patrick  came; 

The  Druid  altars  on  plain  and  highland 
Fell  at  the  sound  of  his  mighty  name ! 

Swift  was  the  conquest — with  hearts  upswelling 
The  Faith  they  took,  and  to  God  they  swore : 

That  precious  spark  from  their  bosoms'  dwelling, 
Man's  guile  or  torture  should  snatch  no  more. 


THE  SONS  OF  PATRICK  47 

And  ever  since,  while  the  wide  world  wonders 
This  steadfast  people  their  strength  reveal. 

As  Time  Earth's  kingdoms  and  empires  sunders, 
They  stand  by  Patrick  in  ranks  of  steel  1 

The  nations  mock  them,  like  Christ's  tormentors; 

"Descend,"  they  cry,  "from  your  cross  of  shame; 
Abjure  the  Faith — see  the  road  that  enters 

The  groves  of  pleasure  and  wealth  and  fame!" 

Like  those  that  passed  where  the  Cross  rose  dimly 
Their  wise  beards  wagging — "What  fools!"  they  say; 

But  the  Sons  of  Patrick  make  answer  grimly: 
"Our  God  we've  chosen — .the  price  we'll  pay. 

"Ever  about  us  the  foes'  commotion. 

The  anguish  sweat  on  our  brows  ne'er  dry; 

Our  martyr's  bones  strew  the  land  and  ocean, 
Lone  deserts  echo  our  exiles'  cry. 

"Unto  our  hearts  is  earth's  pride  forbidden, 

Unto  our  hands  is  its  gold  denied; 
iWe  do  not  question  the  Purpose  hidden — 

Let  Him  who  fashioned  our  souls  decide ! 

"Yet  though  once  more  to  us  choice  were  given, 
And  the  long  aeons  were  backward  rolled. 

We'd  walk  again  before  Earth  and  Heaven 
The  blood-stained  pathway  we  walked  of  old!'* 


48  SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  VILLAGES 

SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  VILLAGES 

By  James  B.  Dollard 

The  pleasant  little  villages  that  grace  the  Irish  glynns 
Down  among  the  wheatfields — up  amid  the  whins, 
The  little  white-walled  villages  crowding  close  together, 
Clinging 'to  the  Old  Sod  in  spite  of  wind  and  weather: 
Ballytarsney,  Ballymore,  Ballyboden,  Boyle, 
Ballingarry,  Ballymagorry  by  the  Banks  of  Foyle, 
Ballylaneen,  Ballyporeen,  Bansha,  Ballysadare, 
Ballybrack,  Ballinalack,  Barna,  Ballyclare. 

The  cozy  little  villages  that  shelter  from  the  mist. 
Where  the   great   West   Walls    by   ocean   spray   are 

kissed; 
The  happy  little  villages  that  cuddle  in  the  sun 
When  blackberries  ripen  and  the  harvest  work  is  done. 
Corrymeela,   Croaghnakeela,   Clogher,  Cahirciveen, 
Cappaharoe,  Carrigaloe,  Cashel  and  Coosheen, 
Castlefinn,  Carrigtohill,  Crumlin,  Clara,  Clane, 
Carrigaholt,  Carrigaline,  Cloghjordan  and  Coolrain. 

The  dreamy  little  villages,  where  by  the  fires  at  night, 

Old    Sanachies    with    ghostly    tale    the    boldest    hearts 
affright ; 

The  crooning  of  the  wind-blast  is  the  wailing  Banshee's 
cry. 

And  when  the  silver  hazels  stir  they  say  the  fairies  sigh, 
Kilfenora,  Kilfinnane,  Kinnity,  Killylea, 
Kilmoganny,  Kiltamagh,  Kilronan  and  Kilrea, 
Killashandra,  Kilmacow,  Killiney,  Killashee, 
JCillenaule,  Killmyshall,  Killorglin  and  Killeagh, 


THE  SOUL  OF  KARNAGHAN  BUIDHE  49 

Leave  the  little  villages,  o'er  the  black  sea  go, 
Learn  the  stranger's  welcome,  learn  the  exile's  woe, 
Leave  the  little  villages,  but  think  not  to  forget, 
Afar  they'll  rise  before  your  eyes  to  rack  your  bosoms 
yet. 
Moneymore,  Moneygall,  Monivea  and  Moyne, 
Mullinahone,  Mullinavatt,  Mullagh  and  Mooncoin, 
Shanagolden,  Shanballymore,  Stranorlar  and  Slane, 
Toberaheena,  Toomyvara,  Tempo  and  Strabane. 

On   the    Southern   Llanos, — north   where   strange   light 
gleams, 

Many  a  yearning  exile  sees  them  in  his  dreams ; 

Dying  voices  murmur  (passed  all  pain  and  care), 

"Lo,  the  little  villages,  God  has  heard  our  prayer." 
Lisdoonvarna,  Lissadil,  Lisdargan,  Lisnaskea, 
Portglenone,  Portarlington,  Portumna,  Portmagee, 
Clondalkin  and  Clongowan,  Cloondara  and  Clonae, 
God  bless  the  little  villages  and  guard  them  night 
and  day ! 

THE  SOUL  OF  KARNAGHAN  BUIDHE 
By  James  B.  Dollard 

It  was  the  soul  of  Karnaghan  Buidhe 

Left  his  lips  with  a  groan. 
Like  arrowy  lightning  bolt  released 

It  sprang  to  the  Judgment  throne. 

Spoke  the  Judge :  "For  as  many  years 

As  the  numbered  drops  of  the  sea 
I  grant  you  heaven — but  thenceforth  hell. 

Your  bitter  lot  shall  be." 


50  THE  SOUL  OF  KARNAGHAN  BUIDHE 

Prayed  the  soul  of  Karnaghan  Buidhe 

{The  trembling  soul  of  Karnaghan  Buidhe') 
"Dear  Lord,  who  died  on  Calvary, 

Too  brief  that  span  of  heaven  for  me." 

Then  spoke  the  Lord:  "For  as  many  years 
As  numbered  sands  on  the  shore. 

The  joys  of  heaven  I  give — but  thence 
You'll  see  my  face  no  more." 

Pleaded  the  soul  of  Karnaghan  Buidhe 

{The  shuddering  soul  of  Karnaghan  Buidhe) 
"Blessed  Lord  who  died  on  the  shameful  tree. 
Too  brief  that  span  of  heaven  for  me." 

Once  more  the  Judge :  "The  blades  of  grass 

That  earth-winds  ever  blew 
A  year  of  heaven  I'll  count  for  each 

Till  hell  shall  yawn  for  you." 

Prayed  the  soul  of  Karnaghan  Buidhe 

{The  anguished  soul  of  Karnaghan  Buidhe}] 

"Kind  Lord,  who  died  in  agony. 

Too  brief  that  spell  of  heaven  for  me. 

But  this  I  ask,  O  Christ — a  year 

Of  hell  for  each  of  these : 
The  blades  of  grass,  the  grains  of  sand, 

The  drops  that  make  the  seas ! 
And  after  this,  sweet  Lord,  with  Thee 
In  heaven  for  all  eternity !" 


THE  ANGELIC  CHORUS  51 

Spoke  the  Judge,  and  His  smile  of  love 
Gladdened  the  waiting  choir  above : 
"Sin  and  sorrow  forever  past, 
Heaven  I  grant  you,  first  and  last !" 


THE  ANGELIC  CHORUS 

By  D,  J.  DONAHOE 

At  midnight  from  the  zenith  burst  a  light 
More  radiant  and  more  beautiful  than  dawn, 
And  the  meek  shepherds  on  the  shadowy  lawn 

Gazed  upward  in  mute  wonder  on  the  sight ; 

The  stars  sank  back  in  pallor,  and  the  skies 

Trembled  responsive  to  rich  harmonies. 

And  lo !  an  angel  spake,  "Be  not  afraid ! 
I  bear  glad  tidings ;  for  this  happy  morn 
A  Saviour  and  a  King  to  man  is  born ; 

He  sleepeth  in  a  manger  lowly  laid." 

Then  rolled  along  the  heavens  the  glad  refrain; 

"Glory  to  God  on  high  and  peace  to  men!' 

Soon  from  the  skies  the  streaming  light  was  gone. 
And  Night  and  Silence  rested  on  the  hill; 
But  the  mute  shepherds,  looking  upward  still, 

Could  hear  the  heavenly  echoes  rolling  on. 

So  evermore  the  listening  world  can  hear 

The  Angelic  Chorus  ringing  sweet  and  clear. 


52  MARY  IMMACULATE 

LADYE  CHAPEL  AT  EDEN  HALL 

By  Eleanor  C.  Donnelly 

Close  to  the  Sacred  Heart,,  it  nestles  fair — 

A  marble  poem;  an  aesthetic  dream 

Of  sculptured  beauty,  fit  to  be  the  theme 

Of  angel  fancies;  a  Madonna-prayer 

Uttered  in  stone.    Round  columns  light  as  air. 

And  fretted  cornice,  Sharon's  Rose  is  wreathed — 

The  passion-flower,  the  thorn-girt  lily  rare. 

The  palm,  the  wheat,  the  grapes  in  vine-leaves  sheathed. 

Tenderly  bright,  from  mullioned  windows  glow 

Our  Lady's  chaplet-mysteries.     Behold, 

Her  maiden  statue  in  that  shrine  of  snow. 

Looks  upward  to  the  skies  of  blue  and  gold ; 

Content  that  in  the  crypt,  beneath  her  shining  feet, 

The  holy  ones  repose- in  dreamless  slumber  sweet. 


MARY  IMMACULATE 
By  Eleanor  C.  Donnelly 

"Pure  as  the  snow,"  we  say.     Ah!  never  flake 

Fell  through  the  air 

One-tenth  as  fair 
As  Mary's  soul  was  made  for  Christ's  dear  sake. 

Virgin  Immaculate, 
The  whitest  whitenes.s  of  the  Alpine  snows. 
Beside  thy  stainless  spirit,  dusky  grows. 


THE  PILGRIM  53 

"Pure  as  the  stars."    Ah !  never  lovely  night 

Wore  in  its  diadem 

So  pure  a  gem 
As  that  which  fills  the  ages  with  its  light. 

Virgin  Immaculate, 
The  peerless  splendors  of  thy  soul  by  far 
Outshine  the  glow  of  heaven's  serenest  star. 


THE  PILGRIM 

By  Eleanor  Downing 

Behind  me  lies  the  mistress  of  the  East, 
Golden  in  evening,  fairy  dome  on  dome 
Poised  and  irised  like  the  far-flung  foam 
Eashed  on  the  ribs  of  some  forsaken  coast. 
Wicked  and  lovely  temptress,  fruitless  'boast 
Of  all  that  man  may  build  and  little  be, 
Mart  of  the  world's  base  passions,  where  thy  feast 
Of  shame  was  spread,  thy  sin  encompassed  me. 
Where  all  desires  and  all  dreams  were  rife 
With  lust  of  flesh  and  eye  and  pride  of  life, 
Lo !    I  have  reft  thy  carnal  mastery — 
I  have  gone  forth  and  shut  the  gates  of  thee. 

Before  me  lies  the  desert  and  the  night, 
White  star  and  gold  above  a  pathless  waste. 
Blue  shade  and  gray  to  where  the  world  effaced 
Flings  loose  its  shadows  on  the  lap  of  God. 
Briars  and  dust  upon  my  brow,  unshod, 

In  pilgrim  weeds  athwart  a  vineless  land, 


54  ON  THE  FEAST  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION 

My  feet  shall  pass  and  mark  the  path  aright, 
For  lo !    Thy  staff  and  rod  are  in  my  hand ; 
And  with  the  light  Thy  city  shall  unfurl 
Its  golden  oriflames  and  tents  of  pearl — 
Dead  Babylon,  thy  g.ilden  clasp  I  flee; 
Jerusalem,  lift  up  thy  gates  to  me! 


ON  THE  FEAST  OF  THE  ASSUMPTION 

By  Eleanor  Downing 

"Mary,  uplifted  to  our  sight 

In  cloudy  vesture  stainless-white. 

Why  are  thine  eyes  like  stars  alight. 

Twin  flames  of  charity?" 
"Mine  eyes  are  on  His  glorious  face 
That  shone  not  on  earth's  darkened  place. 
But  clothed  and  crowned  me  with  grace — 

The  God  who  fathered  me!" 

"Mary,  against  the  sinless  glow 
Of  angel  pinions  white  as  snow. 
Why  are  thy  fair  lips  parted  so 

In  ecstasy  of  love?" 
"My  lips  are  parted  to  His  breath 
Who  breathed  on  me  in  Nazareth 
And  gave  me  life  to  live  in  death — 

My  Spouse,  the  spotless  Dove!" 

"Mary,  whose  eager  feet  would  spurn 
The  very  clouds,  whose  pale  hands  yearn 
Toward  rifted  Heaven  that  fires  burn 
Where  once  was  fixed  the  sword?" 


MARY  55 

"The  fires  I  felt  when  His  child  head 
Lay  on  this  mother's  heart  that  bled, 
And  when  it  lay  there  stark  and  dead — - 
My  little  Child,  my  Lord!" 


MARY 
By  Eleanor  Downing 

A  GARDEN  like  a  chalice-cup, 
With  bloom  of  almond  white  and  pink. 
And  starred  hibiscus  to  the  brink. 

From  which  sweet  waters  bubble  up. 

A  garden  walled  with  ilex-trees 

And  topped  with  blue,  white  clouds  between 
Save  where  the  glossed  leaves'  twinkling  green 

Is  stirred  by  some  soft-footed  breeze 

A  place  apart,  a  watered  glade, 

Where  sin  and  sorrow  have  not  been. 

And  earth's  complaint  grows  hushed  within 

Its  greening  aisles  of  sacred  shade. 

The  circling  arms,  the  flower  face, 

Such  were  they  to  the  Child  soft-pressed, 
Who  drew  all  sweetness  from  the  breast 

Of  her  whom  angels  crowned  with  grace. 

A  night  of  storm  and  wailing  stress, 

A  coast  that  cradles  to  the  shock 

Of  waves  that  lap  the  pitted  rock, 
And  winds  that  shriek  their  wrathf ulness ; 
A  night  of  all  wild  things  unpent. 


56  MARY 

Strange  voices  and  strange  shapes  that  iDeat 

To  chill  the  heart  and  snare  the  feet. 
And  through  the  tempest,  beacon-bent 
To  shelter  from  the  driving  damp 

Bespeaking  warmth  and  sweet  repose 

Within  its  sanctuary  close, 
The  welcome  of  a  red  shrine-lamp. 

So  unto  Him  Who,  weary,  pressed 
Through  the  fierce  storm  of  wrath  and  hate, 
Shone  Mary's  love,  a  chapel-gate 

Where  He  might  enter  Him  and  rest. 

A  desert  filled  with  shining  sand, 

And  still  as  death  the  skies  that  bend 
Where  to  horizon  without  end 

The  rounding  distances  expand. 

A  desert  white  with  burning  heat 
And  parched  silence  without  stir, 
And  at  its  heart  a  voyager, 

Where  Death  and  daggered  noonday  meet; 

And  Thirst  that  grips  him  by  the  throat ; 
When  from  the  distance  wreathing  blue. 
No  mirage,  but  a  dream  come  true, 

Crowned  palm-tree  and  pale  waters  float. 

To  Christ  upon  the  rood,  when  dim 
Fell  on  His  brow  the  Shade  accurst. 
So  Mary  slaked  His  burning  thirst 

With  her  white  soul  held  up  to  Him. 


EXTREME  UNCTION  57 

EXTREME  UNCTION 
By  Ernest  Dowson 

Upon  the  eyes,  the  lips,  the  feet, 

On  all  the  passages  of  sense. 
The  atoning  oil  is  spread  with  sweet 

Renewal  of  lost  innocence. 

The  feet,  that  lately  ran  so  fast 

To  meet  desire,  are  soothly  sealed ; 
The  eyes,  that  were  so  often  cast 

On  vanity,  are  touched  and  healed. 

From  troublous  sights  and  sounds  set  free 

In  such  a  twilight  hour  of  breath, 
Shall  one  retrace  his  life,  or  see, 

Through  shadows,  the  true  face  of  death? 

Vials  of  mercy !    Sacring  oils ! 

I  know  not  where  nor  when  I  come. 
Nor  through  what  wanderings  and  toils, 

To  crave  of  you  Viaticum. 

Yet,  when  the  walls  of  flesh  grow  weak, 

In  such  an  hour,  it  well  may  be. 
Through  mist  and  darkness,  light  will  break, 

And  each  anointed  sense  will  see, 


58  BENEDICTIO  DOMINI 

BENEDICTIO  DOMINI 
By  Ernest  Dowson 

Without,  the  sullen  noises  of  the  street! 

The  voice  of  London,  inarticulate, 
Hoarse  and  blaspheming,  surges  in  to  meet 

The  silent  blessing  of  the  Immaculate. 

Dark  is  the  church,  and  dim  the  worshippers, 

Hushed  with  bowed  heads  as  though  by  some  old  spell, 

While  through  the  incense-laden  air  there  stirs 
The  admonition  of  a  silver  bell. 

Dark  is  the  church,  save  where  the  altar  stands, 
Dressed  like  a  bride,  illustrious  with  light, 

Where  one  old  priest  exalts  with  tremulous  hands 
The  one  true  solace  of  man's  fallen  plight. 

Strang€  silence  here :_  without,  the  sounding  street 
Heralds  the  world's  swift  passage  to  the  fire; 

O  Benediction,  perfect  and  complete! 

When  shall  men  cease  to  suffer  and  desire? 

CARTHUSIANS 

Bv  Ernest  Dowson 

Through  what  long  heaviness,  assayed  in  what  strange 
fire. 
Have  these  white  monks  been  brought  into  the  way 
of  peace. 
Despising  the  world's  wisdom  and  the  world's  desire, 
\Vhich  from  the  body  of  this  death  bring  no  release? 


CARTHUSIANS  59 

Within  their  austere  walls  no  voices  penetrate; 

A  sacred  silence  only,  as  of  death,  obtains  ; 
Nothing  finds  entry  here  of  loud  or  passionate ; 

This  quiet  is  the  exceeding  profit  of  their  pain. 

From  many  lands  they  came,  in  divers  fiery  ways; 

Each  knew  at  last  the  vanity  of  earthly  joys ; 
And    one   was    crowned   with   thorns,    and   one    was 
crowned  with  bays, 
And  each  was  tired  at  last  of  the  world's  foolish 
noise. 

It  was  not  theirs  with  Dominic  to  preach  God's  holy 
wrath, 
They  were  too  stern  to  bear  sweet  Francis'  gentle 
sway; 
Theirs  was  a  higher  calling  and  a  steeper  path, 

To  dwell  alone  with  Christ,  to  meditate  and  pray. 

A  cloistered  company,  they  are  companionless, 
None  knoweth  here  the  secret  of  his  brother's  heart : 

They  are  but  come  together  for  more  loneliness, 
Whose  bond  is  solitude  and  silence  all  their  part. 

O  beatific  life !    Who  is  there  shall  gainsay, 
Your  great  refusal's  victory,  your  little  loss, 

Deserting  vanity  for  the  more  perfect  way, 
The  sweetest  service  of  the  most  dolorous  Cross. 

Ye  shall  prevail  at  last!     Surely  ye  shall  prevail! 

Your  silence  and  your  austerity  shall  win  at  last: 
Desire  and  Mirth,  the  world's  ephemeral  lights  shall 
fail, 

The  sweet  star  of  your  queen  is  never  overcast. 


60  MARIS  STELLA 

We   fling  up  flowers   and  laugh,   we   laugh  across   the 
wine ; 
With  wine  we  dull  our  souls  and  careful  strains  of 
art; 
Our  cups  are  polished  skulls  round  which  the  roses 
twine: 
None   dares   to   look  at  Death   who  leers   and   lurks 
apart. 

Move  on,  white  company,  whom  that  has  not  sufficed ! 

Our  viols  cease,  our  wine  is  death,  our  roses  fail : 
Pray  for  our  heedlessness,  O  dwellers  with  the  Christ ! 

Though  the  world  fall  apart,  surely  ye  shall  prevail. 


MARIS  STELLA 
By  Augusta  Theodosia  Drane 

Mary,  beautiful  and  bright 

"Velut  Maris  Stella,' 
Brighter  than  the  morning  light, 

"Parens  et  Puella," 
I  cry  to  thee,  look  down  on  me; 
Ladye,  pray  thy  Son  for  me, 

"Tam  pia," 
That  thy  child  may  come  to  thee, 

"Maria." 

Sad  the  earth  was  and  forlorn, 
"Eva  peccatri'ce,'* 

Until  Christ  our  Lord  was  born 
"De  te  Genitrice"; 


MARIS  STELLA  61 

Gabriel's  "Ave"  chased  away 
Darksome  night,  and  brought  the  day; 

"Salutis"; 
Thou  the  Fount  whence  waters  play 

"Virtutis." 

Ladye,  Flower  of  living  thing, 

"Rosa  sine  spina"; 
Mother  of  Jesus,  heaven's  King, 

"Gratia  divinia"; 
'Tis  thou  in  all  dost  bear  the  prize, 
Ladye,  Queen  of  Paradise, 

"Electa," 

Maiden  meek  and  Mother  wise, 

"Effecta." 
In  care  thou  counsellest  the  best, 

"Felix  fecundata"; 
To  the  weary  thou  are  rest, 

"Mater  honorata"; 
Plead  in  thy  love  to  Him  who  gave 
His  precious  Blood  the  world  to  save 

"In  cruce," 
That  we  our  home  with  Him  may  have 

"In  luce." 

Well  knows  he,  that  he  is  thy  Son, 

"Ventre  quem  portasti"; 
All  thou  dost  ask  Him,  then,  is  won, 

"Partum  quem  lactasti'^; 
So  pitiful  He  is  and  kind, 
By  Him  the  road  to  bliss  we  find 

"Superni"; 
He  doth  the  gates  of  darkness  bind 

"Inferni." 


Q2  AN  AUTUMN  ROSE-TREE 

AN  AUTUMN  ROSE-TREE 
By  Michael  Earls,  SJ. 

It  seemed  too  late  for  roses 

When  I  walked  abroad  to-day, 
October  stood  in  silence, 

By  the  hedges  all  the  way : 
Yet  did  I  hear  a  singing, 

And  I  saw  a  red  rose-tree: — ^ 
In  fields  so  gray  with  autumn 

How  could  song  or  roses  be? 

Oh,  it  was  never  maple 

Nor  the  dogwood's  coat  afire. 

No  sage  with  scarlet  banners, 
'Nor  the  poppy's  vested  choir: 

The  breeze  that  may  be  music 
,  When  the  sum.m.er  lawns  are  fair 

Will  have  no  heart  for  singing 
In  the  autumn's  mournful  air. 

As  I  went  up  the  roadway, 

Under  cold  and  lonely  skies, 
A  song  I  heard,  a  rose-tree 

Waved  to  me  in  glad  surprise: — ' 
A  red  cloak  and  a  ribbon, 

(Round  the  braided  hair  of  jet) 
And  redder  -cheeks  than  roses 

Of  a  little  Margaret. 

Now  God  is  good  in  autumn, 

He  can  name  the  birds  that  sing. 


TO  A   CARMELITE  POSTULANT  63 

He  loves  the  hearts  of  children 
More  than  flowery  fields  of  spring: 

And  when  the  years  of  winter 
Gray  with  Margaret  will  be, 

God  will  find  her  love  still  blossom 
Like  a  red  roscntree. 


TO  A  CARMELITE  POSTULANT 

(San  Francisco,   May,  1910) 
By  Michael  Earls,  S.J. 

Oh,  the  banks  of  May  are  fair. 
Charm  of  sound  and  sight. 

Breath  of  heaven  filly  the  air. 
To  the  world's  delight. 

Far  more  wondrous  is  a  bower. 

Fairer  than  the  May, 
Love-of-God  it  wears  in  flower, 

Blooming  night  and  day. 

Love-of-God  within  the  heart 

Multicolored  grows, 
Now  a  lily's  counterpart, 

Now  the  blood-red  rose. 

Come  the  sun  or  chilling  rain, 
Come  the  drought  or  dew, 

Crocus  health  or  violet  pain, 
Love-of-God  is  true. 


64  A  PURPOSE  OF  AMENDMENT 

Hard  may  be  the  mountain-side. 

Soft  the  valley  sod, 
Yet  will  fragrance' sure  abide 

With  the  Love-of-God. 

Where  the  grace  of  Heaven  leads. 
There  it  makes  a  home, 

Hills  a  hundred  and  the  meads 
Will  its  pathway  roam. 

Carmel  by  the  western  sea 
Holds  your  blessed  bower: 

Love-of-God  .eternally 
Keep  your  heart  a-flower. 


A  PURPOSE  OF  AMENDMENT 

By  Helen  Parry  Eden" 

He  who  mangold-patch  doth  hoe. 
Sweating  beneath  a  sturdy  sun, 
Clearing  each  weed-disguised  row 
Till  day-light  and  the  task  be  done, 

Standeth  to  view  his  labour's  scene — 
Where  now,  within  the  hedge-row's  girth. 
The  little  plant's  untrammeled  green 
Stripes  the  brown  fabric  of  the  earth. 

So  when  the  absolution's  said 
Behind  the  grille,  and  I  may  go, 
And  all  the  flowers  of  sin  are  dead, 
And  all  the  stems  of  sin  laid  low. 


THE  CONFESSIONAL  65 

And  I  am  come  to  Mary's  shrine 
To  lay  my  hopes  within  her  hand — 
Ah,  in  how  fair  and  green  a  line 
The  seedling  resolutions  stand. 


THE  CONFESSIONAL 

By  Helen  Parry  Eden 

My  Sorrow  diligent  would  sweep 

That  dingy  room  infest 

With  d-ust  (thereby  I  mean  my  soul) 

Because  she  hath  a  Guest 

Who  doth  require  that  self-same  room 

Be  garnished  for  His  rest. 

And  Sorrow  (who  had  washed  His  feet 
Where  He  before  had  been) 
Took  the  long  broom*  of  Memory 
And  swept  the  corners  clean, 
Till  in  the  midst  of  the  fair  floor 
The  sum  of  dust  was  seen. 

It  lay  there,  settled  by  her  tears, 
That  fell  the  while  she  swept — 
Light  fluffs  of  grey  and  earthly  dregs ; 
And  over  these  she  wept, 
For  all  were  come  since  last  her  Guest 
Within  the  room  had  slept. 

And,  for  nor  broom  nor  tears  had  power 

To  lift  the  clods  of  ill. 

She  called  one  servant  of  her  Guest 


66  AN  ELEGY 

Who  came  with  right  good  will, 

For,  by  his  sweet  Lord's  bidding,  he 

Waiteth  on  Sorrow  still ; 

So,  seeing  she  had  done  her  part 

As  far  as  in  her  lay 

And  had  intent  to  keep  the  place 

More  cleanly  from  that  day, 

Did  with  his  Master's  dust-pan  come 

And  take  the  dust  away. 

'       She  thanked  him,  and  Him  who  sent 
Such  succor,  and  she  spread 
Fair  sheets  of  Thankfulness  and  Love 
Upon  her  Master's  bed. 
Then  on  the  new-scoured  threshold  stood 
And  listened  for  His  tread. 


AN  ELEGY,  FOR  FATHER  ANSELM,  OF  THIZ 

ORDER     OF    REFORMED     CISTERCIAN'S, 

GUEST-MASTER  AND  PARISH  PRIEST 

"Et  pastores  erant  in  regione  eadem  vigilantes" 

By  Helen  Parry  Eden 

You  to  whose  soul  a  death  propitious  brings 
Its  Heaven,  who  attain  a  windless  bourne 
Of  sanctity  beyond  all  sufferings, 
It  is  not  ours  to  mourn; 

For  you,  to  whom  the  earth  could  nothing  give, 
Who  knew  no  hint  of  our  inspired  pride, 
You  could  not  very  well  be  said  to  live 
Until  the  day  you  died. 


AN  ELEGY  67 

Tis  upon  us — father  and  kindly  friend. 
Holy  and  cheerful  host — 'the  unbidden  guest 
You  welcomed  and  the  souls  you  would  amend, 
The  weig^ht  of  sorrow  rests. 

From  Sarum!  in  the  mesh  of  her  five  streams, 

Her  idle  belfries  and  her  glittering  vanes, 

We  are  clomb  to  where  the  cloud-race  dusks  and  gleams 

On  turf  of  upland  plains. 

Southward  the  road  through  juniper  and  briar 
Clam'bers  the  down,  untrodden  and  unworn 
Save  where  some  flock  pitted  the  chalky  mire 
With  little  feet  at  dawn. 

Twice  in  a  week  the  hooded  carrier's  lamp, 
Flashing  on  wayside  flints  and  grasses,  spills 
Its  misty  radiance  where  the  dews  lie  damp 
Among  the  untended  hills ; 

Here  lies  the  hamlet  ringed  with  grassy  mound 
And  brambled  barrow  where,  superbly  dead, 
The  dust  of  pagans  turned  to  holy  ground 
Beneath  your  humble  tread. 

Here  we  descend  at  drooping  dusk  the  side 
Of  the  stony  down  beneath  the  planted  ring 
Of  beeches  where  you  showed  with  pastoral  pride 
The  folded  lambs  in  spring; 

Here  pull  at  eve  the  self-same  bell  that  hastened 
Your  rough-shod  feet  behind  the  hollow  door — 
Yet  never  see  you  stand,  the  chain  unfastened, 
Your  lantern  on  the  floor. 


68  AN  ELEGY 

Others  will  spread  the  board  now  you  are  gone 
Here  where  you  smiled  and  gave  your  guests  to  eat,  . 
Learning  your  menial  kingliness  from  One 
Who  washed  His  servant's  feet ; 

Along  the  slumbering  corridors  betimes 
Others  will  knock  and  other  footsteps  pass 
Down  the  wet  lane  e'er  the  thin  shivering  chimes 
Toll  for  the  early  mass. 

Yet  in  the  chapel's  self  no  sorrows  sing 

In  the  strange  priest's  voice,  nor  any  dolour  grips 

The  heart  because  it  is  not  you  who  bring 

Your  Master  to  its  lips. 

Here  let  us  leave  the  things  you  would  not  have — 
Vain  grief  and  sorrow  useless  to  be  shown — 
"God's  gift  and  the  Com'munity's  I  gave 
And  nothing  of  my  own," 

You  would  have  said,  self-deemed  of  no  more  worth 
Then  that  green  hands  that  guard  a  poppy's  grace — 
Blows  the  eternal  flower  and  back  to  earth 
Tumbles  the  withered  case. 

Nay,  but  Our  Lord  hath  made  renouncement  vain, 
Himself  into  those  humble  hands  let  fall. 
Guerdon  of  willing  poverty  and  pain. 
The  greatest  gift  of  all; 

To  you  and  all  who  in  that  life  austere 
Mid  fields  remote  your  harsher  labours  ply 
Singing  His  praise,  girt  round  from  year  to  year 
"\Vith  sheep-bells  and  the  sky — 


AN  ELEGY  69 

This,  that  to  you  is  larger  audience  given 

Where  prayer  and  praise  with  sighing  pinions  shod 

Piercing  the  starry  ante-rooms  of  Heaven 

Sway  the  designs  of  God : 

And  now  yourself,  standing  where  late  hath  stood 
The  echo  of  your  voice,  are  prayer  and  praise — 
O  sweet  reward  and  unsurpassing  good 
For  that  small  gift  of  days. 

Yourself,  who  now  have  heard  such  summoning 
And  seen  such  burning  clarities  alight 
As  broke  the  vigilant  shepherds'  drowsy  ring 
On  the  predestined  night. 

Who  made  such  haste  as  theirs  who  rose  and  trod 
To  Bethlehem  the  dew -encumbered  grass. 
Trustful  to  see  the  showing  forth  of  God 
And  the  Word  come  to  pass  ; 

With  how  much  more  than  home-spun  Israelites' 
Poor  hungry  glimpse  of  Godhead  are  you  blest 
Whom  Mary  shows  for  more  than  mortal  nights 
The  Jewel  on  her  breast. 

Yet,  as  one  kneeling  churl  might  chance  to  think 
Of  the  wan-  herd  behind  their  wattled  bars. 
Moving  unshepherded  with  bells  that  clink 
And  stir  beneath  the  stars, 

And,  for  the  thought's  space  wishing  he  were  back, 
Pray  to  that  Sum  of  Sweetness  for  his  sheep — 
"Take  them,  O  Thou  that  dost  supply  our  lack, 
Into  Thy  hands  to  keep." 


70  SORROW 

So  you  who  in  His  presence  move  and  live 
Recall  amid  your  glad  celestial  cares, 
Your  chosen  office,  ito  your  children  give 
The  charity  of  prayers. 


SORROW 

By  Helen  Parry  Eden 

Of  Sorrow,  'tis  as  Saints  have  said — 
That  his  ill-savoured  lamp  shall  shed 
A  light  to  Heaven,  when,  blown  about 
By  the  world's  vain  and  windy  rout. 
The  candles  of  delight  burn  out. 

Then  usher  Sorrow  to  thy  board. 
Give  him  su'ch  fare  as  may  afford 
Thy  single  habitation — ^best 
To  meet  him  half-way  in  his  quest. 
The  importunate  and  sad-eyed  guest. 

Yet  somewhat  should  he  give  who  took 

My  hospitality,  for  look. 

His  is  no  -random  vagrancy; 

Beneath  his  rags  what  hints  there  be 

Of  a  celestial  livery. 

Sweet  Sorrow,  play  a  grateful  part. 
Break  me  the  marble  o'f  my  heart 
And  of  its  fragments  pave  a  street 
Where,  to  my  bliss,  myself  may  meet 
One  hastening  with  pierced  feet. 


VIGIL  OF  THE  IMMACULATE  CONCEPTION       71 

OUR  LADY'S  DEATH 
By  Father   Edmund,  C.P. 

And  didst  thou  die,  dear  Mother  of  our  Life? 

Sin  had  no  part  in  thee ;  then  how  should  death? 

Methinks,  if  aught  the  great  tradition  saith 
Could  wake  in  loving  hearts  a  moment's  strife 
(J  said — my  own  with  her  new  image  rife), 

'Twere  this.     And  yet  'tis  certain,  next  to  faith 
Thou  didst  lie  down  to  render  up  thy  breath: 
Though  after  the  seventh  sword,  no  meaner  knife 

Could  pierce  that  bosom.    No,  nor  did :  no  sting 
Of  pain  was  there;  but  only  joy.     The  love. 
So  long  thy  life  ecstatic,  and  restrained 
From  setting  free  thy  soul,  now  gave  it  wing; 
Thy  body,  soon  to  reign  with  it  above, 

Radiant  and  fragrant,  as  in  trance,  remained. 


VIGIL  OF  THE   IMMACULATE  CONCEPTION 
By  Maurice  Francis  Egan 

A  swoRD  of  silver  cuts  the  fields  asunder — 
A  silver  sword  to-night,  a  lake  in  June — > 

And  plains  of  snow  reflect,  the  maples  under. 
The  silver  arrows  of  a  wintry  noon. 


72  THE  OLD  VIOLIN 

The  trees  are  white  -with  moonlight  and  with  ice-pearls; 

The  trees  are  white,  like  ghosts  we  see  in  dreams ; 
The  air  is  still :  there  are  no  moaning  wind-whirls ; 

And  one  sees  silence  in  the  quivering  'beams. 

December  night,  December  night,  how  warming 
Is  all  thy  coldness  to  the  Christian  soul : 

Thy  very  peace  at  ea'ch  true  heart  is  storming 
In  potent  waves  of  love  that  surging  roll. 

December  night,  December  night,  how  glowing 
Thy  frozen  rains  upon  our  warm  hearts  lie : 

Our  God  upon  this  vigil  is  bestowing 

A  thousand  graces  from  the  silver  sky, 

O  moon,  O  symbol  of  our  Lady's  whiteness; 

O  snow,  O  symbol  of  our  Lady's  heart; 
O  night,  chaste  night,  bejewelled  with  argent  brightness, 

How  sweet,  how  bright,  how  loving,  kind  thou  art. 

O  miracle :  to-morrow  and  to-morrow, 

In  tender  reverence  shall  no  praise  abate ; 

For  from  all  seasons  shall  we  new  jewels  borrow 
To  deck  the  Mother  born  Immaculate. 

THE  OLD  VIOLIN 

By  Maurice  Fratstcis  Egan 

Though  tuneless,   stringless,   it  lies  there  in  dust, 
Like  some  great  thought  on  a  forgotten  page; 

The  soul  of  music  cannot  fade  or  rust, — ■ 

The  voice  within  it  stronger  grows  with  age ; 

Its  strings  and  bow  are  only  triffling  things — 
A  master-touch ! — its  sweet  soul  wakes  and  sinsfs. 


HE  MADE  US  FREE  73 

MAURICE  DE  GUERIN 
By  Maurice  Francis  Egan 

The  old  wine  filled  him,  and  he  saw,  with  eyes 
Anoint  of  Nature,  fauns  and  dryads  fair 
Unseen  by  others;  to  him  maidenhair 

And  waxen  lilacs,  and  those  birds  that  rise 

A-sudden  from  tall  reeds  at  slight  surprise, 

Brought  charmed  thoughts ;  and  in  earth  everywhere 
He,  like  sad  Jaques,  found  a  music  rare 

As  that  of  Syrinx  to  old  Grecians  wise. 

A  pagan  heart,  a  Christian  soul  had  he, 

He  followed  Christ,  yet  for  dead  Pan  he  sighed, 
Till  earth  and  heaven  met  within  his  breast; 

As  i'f  Theocritus  in  Sicily 

Had  come  upon  the  Figure  crucified 

And  lost  his  gods  in  deep,  Christ-given  rest. 


HE  MADE  US  FREE 
By  Maurice  Francis  Egan 

As  flame  streams  upward,  so  my  longing  thought 

Flies  up  with  Thee, 
Thou  God  and  Saviour  who  hast  truly  wrought 
Life  out  of  death,  and  to  us,  loving,  brought 
A  fresh,  new  world ;  and  in  Thy  sweet  chains  caught^ 

And  made  us  free! 


74  HE  MADE  US  FREE 

As  hyacinths  make  way  from  out  the  dark, 

My  soul  awakes, 
At  thought  of  Thee,  like  sap  'beneath  the  ba)rk; 
As  little  violets  in  field  and  park 
Rise  to  the  trilling  thrush  and  meadow-lark. 

New  hope  it  takes. 

As  thou  goest  upward  through  the  nameless  space 

We  call  the  sky, 
Like  jonquil  perfume  softly  falls  Thy  grace ; 
Ir  seems  to  touch  and  brighten  every  place ; 
Fresh  flowers  crown  our  wan  and  weary  race, 

O  Thou  on  high. 

Hadst  Thou  not  risen,  there  would  be  no  more  joy 

Upon  earth's  sod; 
Life  would  still  be  with  us  a  wound  or  toy, 
A  cloud  without  the  sun, — O  Babe,  O  Boy, 
A  Man  of  Mother  pure,  with  no  alloy, 

O  risen  God4 

Thou,  God  and  King,  didst  "mingle  in  the  game," 

(Cease,  all  fears;  cease!) 
For  love  of  us, — not  to  give  Virgil's  fame 
Or  Croesus'  wealth,  not  to  make  well  the  lame, 
Or  save  the  sinner  from  deserved  shame. 

But  for  sweet  Peace ! 

For  peace,  for  joy, — not  that  the  slave  might  lie 

In  luxury. 
Not  that  all  woe  from  us  should  always  fly, 
Or  golden  crops  with  Syrian  roses  vie 
In  every  field ;  but  in  Thy  peace  to  die 

And  rise, — be  free! 


THE  GRANDEURS  OF  MARY  75 

THE  GRANDEURS  OF  MARY 
By  Frederick  William  Faber,  D.D. 

What  is  this  grandeur  I  see  up  in  heaven, 
A  splendour  that  looks  like  a  splendour  divine? 

What  creature  so  near  the  Creator  is  throned  ? 
O  Mary,  those  marvellous  glories  are  thine. 

But  who  would  have  thought  that  a  creature  could  live 
With  the  fires  of  the  Godhead  so  awfully  nigh? 

Oh,  who  could  have  dreamed,  mighty  Mother  of  God, 
That  ever  God's  power  could  have  raised  thee  so 
high? 

What  name  can  we  give  to  a  queenship  so  grand? 

What  thought  can  w.e  think  of  a  glory  like  this? 
Saints  and  angels  lie  far  in  the  distance,  remote 

From  the  golden  excess  of  thine  unmated  bliss. 

Thy  person,  thy  soul,  thy  most  beautiful  form. 
Thine  office,  thy  name,  thy  most  singular  grace — 

God  hath  made  for  them.  Mother,  a  world  by  itself, 
A  shrine  all  alone,  a  most  worshipful  place. 

Mid  the  blaze  of  those  fires,  eternal,  unmade, 
Thy  Maker  unspeakably  makes  thee  his  own; 

The  arms  of  the  Three  Uncreated,  outstretched, 

Round  the   Word's  mortal   Mother  in   rapture  are 
thrown. 


76  THE  GRANDEURS  OF  MARY 

Thy  sinless  conception,  thy  jubilant  birth, 

Thy  crib  and  thy  cross,  thine  assumption  and  crown, 
They  have   raised  thee  on  high  to  the   right  hand  of 
Him 
Whom  the  spells  of  thy  love  to  thy  bosom  drew 
down. 

T  am  blind  with  thy  glory;  in  all  God's  wide  world 
I  find  nothing  like  thee  for  glory  and  power: 

I  can  hardly  believe  that  thou  grewest  on  earth, 
In  the  green  fields  of  Juda,  a  scarce-noticed  flower. 

And  is  it  not  really  eternal,  divine? 

Is  it  human,  created,  a  glorified  heart, 
So  like  God,  and  not  God?    Ah,  Maker  of  men, 

We  bless  thee  for  being  the  God  that  thou  art. 

O  Mary,  what  ravishing  pageants  I  see, 

What   wonders    and    works    centre    round   thee    in 
heaven. 

What  creations  of  grace  fall  like  light  from  thy  hands, 
What  creator-like  powers  to  thy  prudence  are  given. 

What  vast  jurisdiction,  what  numberless  realms. 
What  profusion  of  dread  and  unlimited  power, 

What  holy  supremacies,  awful  domains, 

The  Word's  mighty  Mother  enjoys  for  her  dower. 

What  grand  ministrations  of  pity  and  strength, 
What  endless  processions  of  beautiful  light, 

What  incredible  marvels  of  motherly  love. 

What  queenly  resplendence  of  empire  and  right. 


THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN  77 

What  sounds  as  of  seas  flowing  all  round  thy  throne, 
What  flashings  of  fire  from  thy  burning  abode, 

What  thunders  of  glory,  what  tempests  of  power, 
What  calms,  like  the  calms  in  the  Bosom  of  God. 

Inexhaustible  wonder;  the  treasures  of  God 

Seem  to  multiply  under  thy  marvellous  hand; 
And  the  power  of  thy  Son  seems  to  gain  and  to  grow. 
When  He  deigns  to  obey  thy  maternal  command. 

Ten  thousand  magnificent  greatnesses  blend 

Their  vast  oceans  of  light,  at  the  foot  of  thy  throne ; 

Ten  thousand  unspeakable  majesties  grace 
The  royalty  vested  in  Mary  alone. 

But  look,  what  a  wonder  there  is  up  in  God: 
One  love,  like  a  special  perfection,  we  see ; 

And  the  chief  of  thy  grandeurs,  great  Mother,  is  there — 
In  the  love  the  Eternal  Himself  has  for  thee. 


THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN 
By  Frederick  William  Faber,  D.D. 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 
To  rise  and  take  His  part 

Upon  this  battlefield  of  earth. 
And  not  sometimes  lose  heart. 

He  hides  Himself  so  wondrously, 
As  tho-ugh  there  were  no  God; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 


78  THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN 

Or  He  deserts  us  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost ; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 
Just  when  we  need  Him  most. 

Ill  masters  good ;  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross-purposes. 

Ah!     God  is  other  than  we  think; 

His  ways  are  far  a'bove, 
Far  beyond   reason's  height,   and   reached 

Only  by  child-like  love. 

Workman  of  God !    Oh,  lose  not  heart. 
But  learn  what  God  is  like ; 

And  in  the  darkest  battle-field 
Thou  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  blessed  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
That  God  is  on  the  field  when  He 

Is  most  invisible. 

Blessed  too,  is  he  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie. 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seems 

Wrong  to  man's  blindfold  eye. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God; 

And  right  the  day  must  win ; 
To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty. 

To  falter  would  be  sin. 


YU  LET  IDE  79 

MATER  DOLOROSA 
By  John  Fitzpatrick,  O.M.I. 

She  stands,  within  the  shadow,  at  the  foot 
Of  the  high  tree  she  planted :  thirty-three 
Full  years  have  sped,  and  such  has  grown  to  be 

The  stem  that  burgeoned  forth  from  Jesse's  root. 

Spring  swiftly  passed  and  panted  in  pursuit 
The  eager  summer;  now  she  stands  to  see 
The  only  fruit-time  of  her  only  tree: 

And  all  the  world  is  waiting  for  the  Fruit. 

Now  is  faith's  sad  fruition :  this  one  hour 
Of  gathered  expectation  wears  the  crown 

Of  the  long  grief  with  which  the  years  were  rife; 
As  in  her  lap — a  sudden  autumn  shower — 

The   earthquake   with   his   trembling   hand    shakes 
down 
The  red,  ripe  Fruitage  of  the  Tree  of  Life. 


YULETIDE 

By  Alice  Furlong 

In  a  stable  bare, 
Lo,  the  great  Ones  are. 
Strew  the  Ivy  and  the  Myrtle 
Round  about  the  Virgin's  kirtle  { 


gQ  YULETIDB 

Ass  and  oxen  mild 
Breathe  soft  upon  the  Child! 
Blow  the  scent  of  bygone  summer 
On  your  breath  to  the  New-comer! 

Be  ye  well  content 

To  be  straitly  pent 

Backwards  in  the  rocky  chamber 

From  the  angel's  wings  of  amber! 

Rapt  the  seraphs  sit, 

With  godly  faces  lit 

In  a  radiance  shining  solely 

From  the  Christ-child,  meek  and  holy. 

High  they  chant  and  clear 
Of  the  lovely  cheer 
Ring  down  the  new  evangels 
Of  the  mystic,  midnight  angels. 

Faring  with  good  will 
From  the  misty  hill, 
Every  shepherd  sacrificeth 
To  the  prophet  that  ariseth. 

Joseph,  Mary's  spouse, 
Prince  of  David's  House, 
Bendeth  low  in  adorations 
To  the  Ruler  of  the  Nations. 

Who  doth  sweetly  rest 

On  his  Mother's  breast. 

Lord  of  the  lightnings  and  the  thunders! 

Mary's  heart  keeps  all  these  wonders. 


AT  THE  LEAP  OF  THE  WATERS  81 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  ROSARY 
By  Francis  A.  Gaffney;  O.P. 

Lepanto  marks  the  spot  of  victory, 

O'er  crescent  cruel  and  strong,  by  forces  weak, 

Of  hallowed  cross ;  of  which,  "if  sign  you  seek," 
'Tis  not  of  man  but  a  Divinity. 
The  white-robed  Pius  Fifth  the  Rosary 

Uplifted  like  the  rod  of  Moses,  meek; 

Whilst  Ottomans  on  Christians  wrath  would  wreak 
And,  as  of  old,  engulfed  them  in  the  sea. 

O  Lady  of  the  Rosary  to-day. 

Thy  clients  all  beseech  thee,  hear  their  prayer. 
And  beg  the  Christ  Who  raging  storms  did  quell, 
Bid  warring  nations  cease  their  bloody  fray; 
His  power  and  thine  honor,  we  declare, 
O  Thou  All-Fair,  thou  joy  of  Israel. 


AT  THE  LEAP  OF  THE  WATERS 
By  Edward  F.  Garesch]&,  SJ. 

How  the  swift  river  runs  bright  to  its  doom. 
Placid  and  shining  and  smooth-flowing  by. 

Blue  with  the  gleam  of  the  heavenly  room, 
Smiling  and  calm  with  the  smile  of  the  sky ! 

Ah,  but  the  plunge !  and  the  shock  and  the  roar. 


82  AT  THE  LEAF   OF  THE  WATERS 

The  spray  of  vast  waters  that  hurl  to  the  deep, 
The  churn  of  its  foam,  as  the  measureless  pour 

Of  that  wide-brimming  torrent  leaps  sheer  from  the 
steep ! 
Look  ye;  it  reaches  small  fingers  of  spray 

To  clutch  at  the  brink,  as  unwilling  to  go 
Through  the  perilous  air,  and  be  fretted  away 

In  the  tumult  of  vapor  that  boileth  below. 
List  ye !  the  voice  of  the  huge  undertone 

That  murmurs  in  pain  from  the  cataract's  breast, 
Where  the  bruised,  shattered  waters  perpetual  moan 

And  wander  and  toss  in  a  weary  unrest. 
Feel  ye  the  breath  of  the  cool-spraying  mist, 

Cloudy  and  gray  from  the  depths  of  its  pain; 
Not  as  when  sunbeams  the  waters  have  kissed, 

Rising  in  vapor  to  gather  in  rain, 
But  fiercely  and  madly  flung  forth  on  the  air, 

A  shroud  for  this  river  that  leaps  to  its  death, 
A  veil  o'er  the  throes"  of  the  cataract  there, 

And  rolling  and  rent  with  its  agonized  breath ! 
Wild  torrent!     God  put  thee  to  thunder  His  name! 

With  the  roar  of  thy  waters  to  call  to  the  sky 
Of  His  might,  Who  hath  set  thee  forever  the  same, 

To  topple  in  foam  to  the  gulfs  from  on  high. 
Loud  hymn  of  the  lake-lands  I  from  shore  unto  shore, 

Still  clamor  His  praises  Who  called  thee  to  be, 
Till  the  ears  of  the  nations  are  tuned  to  thy  roar. 

And  they  hear  the  vast  message  He  trusted  to  thee. 


NIAGARA  83 

NIAGARA 
By  Edward  F.  Garesche,  SJ. 

God,  in  His  ages  past  the  dawn  of  days, 

Writ  one  white  line  of  praise, 

Which  now,  in  this  great  stress  and  hour  of  need, 

I  bend  my  soul  to  read. 

I  break  the  sullen  bonds  of  wearying  time, 

And  with  one  leap  sublime, 

Force  my  astounded  soul  go  back  and  stand 

In  the  primaeval  land ! 

The  tresses  of  the  ancient  flood  are  kissed 

With  virginal,  white  mist. 

The  same  soft,  thunderous  sound 

Thrills  the  wild  woods  around, 

But  oh  the  vast  and  mighty  peace  that  broods 

On  these  green  solitudes. 

Where  the  great  land,  with  one  tremendous  tone, 

Litanies  to  God,  alone ! 

Tongue  of  the  continent !    Thou  whose  hymning  shakes 
The  bosom  of  the  lakes ! 

0  sacrificial  torrent,  keen  and  bright, 
Hurled  from  thy  glorious  height ! 

Thou  sacerdotal  presence,  clothed  in  power, 

At  once  the  victim  and  the  white-robed  priest, 

Whose  praise  throughout  these  ages  hath  not  ceased, 

Whose  altar  steams  with  incense  every  hour ! 

Lo,  in  all  days,  from  thy  white  waters,  rise 

The  savors  of  perpetual  sacrifice! 

1  see  pale  prophecy  of  Christ's  dear  blood! — 
The  transubstantiation  of  thy  flood! 


84  NIAGARA 

Oh  the  wild  wonder  of  the  vast  emotion 

Of  the  perturbed  wave, 

That  cries  and  wanders  like  the  fearful  ocean, 

Seeking,  with  none  to  save ! 

In  their  wide  agony  the  rapids  roam, 

A  world  of  waves,  an  universe  of  pain ! 

The  vexed,  tumultous  clamor  of  their  foam 

Crying  to  God  with  agonized  refrain, 

Where  the  sad  rocks  their  quivering  summits  hide 

In  the  loud  anguish  of  the  refluent  tide. 

Yet,  with  a  willingness  that  leaps  to  sorrow 
Swift  run  the  ragged  surges  to  the  height, 
And  from  their  pain  is  born  a  pure  delight — 
The  fear  to-day,  the  snowy  peace  to-morrow ! — 
Cleaving  like  darts  their  swift  and  silvery  way 
With  sudden  gleams,  and  barbs  of  glittering  spray, 
They  hurry  to  the  brink,  and  swift  are  lost 
In  that  stupendous  leap,  that  infinite  holocaust! 

Oh  Christ-like  glory  of  the  praying  water 
That  leaps  forever  to  its  mystic  death ! 
And  from  the  anguish  of  that  sobbing  slaughter 
Lifts  the  clear  glory  of  the  torrent's  breath. 
Where  like  a  paean  of  rapturous  victory  calls 
The  solemn  jubilation  of  the  falls! 

O  alabastrine  priest — thy  splendor  spraying 
More  lasting  than  the  immemorial  hills ! 
O  monument  of  waves,  O  undecaying 
While  God's  right  hand  thy  flowing  chalice  fills ! 
Under  the  transient  world's  astonished  eyes 
Thou  offerest  abiding  sacrifice! 


COMMUNION  85 

In  the  pale  morning,  when  the  rising  sun 

Flatters  thy  pouring  flood  with  slanting  beams, 

Most  reverent  thy  duteous  waters  run, 

And  hymn  to  God  with  all  their  thousand  streams. 

And  in  the  blazing  majesty  of  noon, 

Still  lifts  thy  wave  its  sacrificial  tune. 

And  spills,  like  jewels  of  some  eastern  story. 

Its  'bright,  impetuous  avalan-che  of  glory ! 

And  in  the  stilly  spaces  of  the  night. 
While  heaven  wonders  with  its  wakeful  stars, 
Thou  prayest  still,  beneath  the  solemn  light. 
In  booming  tones  that  reach  to  heaven's  bars, 
Keeping  thy  vigils,  while  the  angelic  moon 
"Walks  on  thy  perilous  verge  with  glorious  shoon. 
Chanting  from  foam  and  spray  without  encease 
Thy  yearning  immemorial  prayer  for  peace ! 


COMMUNION 

By  Caroline  Giltinan 

Mother  Mary,  thee  I  see 

Bringing  Him,  thy  Babe,  to  me. 

Thou  dost   say,  with   trusting  smile; 

"Hold  Him,  dear,  a  little  while." 

Mother  Mary,  pity  me, 

For  He  struggles  to  be  free ! 

My  heart,  my  arms — He  finds  defiled; 

I  am  unworthy  of  thy  Child. 

Mary,  Mother,  charity ! 

Bring  thy  Baby  back  to  me ! 


86  TRYSTE  NOEL 

THE  NIGHTINGALE 
By  Gerald  Griffin 

As  the  mute  nightingale  in  closest  groves 

Lies  hid  at  noon,  but  when  day's  piercing  eye 
Is  locked  in  night,  with  full  heart  beating  high    - 

Poureth  her  plain-song  o'er  the  light  she  loves ; 

So,  Virgin  Ever-pure  and  Ever-iblest, 

Moon  of  religion,  from  whose  radiant  face 
Reflected  streams  the  light  of  heavenly  grace 

On  broken  hearts,  by  contrite  thoughts  oppressed : 

So,  Mary,  they  who  justly  feel  the  weight 
Of  Heaven's  ofifended  Majesty,  implore 
Thy  reconciling  aid  with  suppliant  knee: 

Of  sinful  man,  O  sinless  Advocate, 

To  thee  they  turn,  nor  Him  they  less  adore ; 

'Tis  still  His  light  they  love,  less  dreadful  seen  in 
thee. 

TRYSTE  NOEL 

By  Louise  Imogen  Guiney 

The  Ox  he  openeth  wide  the  doore, 

And  from  the  Snowe  he  calls  her  inne. 
And  he  hath  seen  her  smile  therefore, 
Our  Ladye  without  Sinne. 
Now  soone  from  Sleep 
A  Starre  shall  leap. 
And  soone  arrive  both  King  and  Hinde: 

Amen,  Amen: 
But  O  the  place  co'd  I  but  finde ! 


THE  WILD  RIDE  87 

The  Ox  hathi  hushed  his  voyce  and  bent 

Trewe  eyes  of  Pitty  ore  the  Mow, 
And  on  his  lovelie  Neck,  forspent, 
The  Blessed  layes  her  Browe. 
Around  her  feet, 
Full  Warme  and  Sweete, 
His  bowerie  Breath  doth  meeklie  dwell: 

Amen,  Amen: 
But  sore  am  I  with  Vaine  Travel! 

The  Ox  is  Host  in  Judah  stall 

And  Host  of  more  than  onlie  one, 
For  close  she  gathereth  withal 
Our  Lorde  her  littel  Sonne. 
Glad  Hinde  and  King 
Their   Gyfte  may   bring, 
But  wo'd  to-night  my   Teares  were  there. 

Amen,  Amen: 
Between  her  Bosom  and  His  hayre! 

THE  WILD  RIDE 

By  Louise  Imogen  Guiney 

/  hear  in  my  heart,  I  hear  in  its  ominous  pulses 
All  day,  on  the  road,  the  hoofs  of  invisible  horses. 
All  nighty  from  their  stalls,  the  importunate  pawing  and 
neighing. 

Let  cowards  and  laggards   fall  back!  but  alert  to  the 

saddle. 
Weatherworn   and    abreast,   go   men    of   our    galloping 

legion. 


88  THE   WILD  RIDE 

With  a  stirrup-cup  each  to  the  lily  of  women  that  loves 
him. 

The  trail  is  through  dolor  and  dread,  over  crags  and 

morasses ; 
There  are  shapes  by  the  way,  there  are  things  that  appal 

or  entice  us: 
What  odds?    We  are  Knights  of  the  Grail,  we  are  vowed 

to  the  riding. 

Thought's  self  is  a  vanishing  wing,  and  joy  is  a  cobweb. 
And  friendshio  a  flower  in  the  dust,  and  glory  a  sun- 
beam : 
Not  here  is  our  prize,  nor,  alas!  after  these  our  pursuing. 

A  dipping  of  plumes,  a  tear,  a  shake  of  the  bridle, 
A  passing  salute  to  this  world  and  her  pitiful  beauty: 
We  hurry  with  never  a  word  in  the  track  of  our  fathers. 

/  hear  in  my  hearty  I  hear  in  its  ominous  pulses 
All  day,  on  the  road,  the  hoofs  of  invisible  horses, 
All  night,  from  their  stalls,  the  importunate  pawing  and 
neighing. 

We  spur  to  a  land  of  no  name,  outracing  the  stormwind ; 
We  leap  to  the  infinite  dark  like  the  sparks  from  the 

anvil. 
Thou  leadest,  O  God !    All's  well  with  Thy  troopers  that 

follow. 


ODE  FOR  A  MASTER  MARINER  ASHORE  89 

ODE  FOR  A  MASTER  MARINER  ASHORE 

By  Louise  Imogen  Guiney 

There  in  his  room,  whene'er  the  moon  looks  in, 

And  silvers  now  a  shell,  and  now  a  fin, 

And  o'er  his  chart  glides  like  an  argosy, 

Quiet  and  old  sits  he. 

Danger!  he  hath  grown  homesick  for  thy  smile. 

Where  hidest  thou  the  while,  heart's  boast, 

Strange  face  of  beauty  sought  and  lost. 

Star-face  that  lured  him  out  from  boyhood's  isle? 

Blown  clear  from  dull  indoors,  his  dreams  behold 

Night-water  smoke  and  sparkle  as  of  old. 

The  taffrail   lurch,   the   sheets  triumphant  toss 

Their  phosphor-flowers  across. 

Towards  ocean's  either  rim  the  long-exiled 

Wears  on,  till  stunted  cedars  throw 

A  lace-like  shadow  over  snow, 

Or  tropic  fountains  wash  their  agates  wild. 

Awhile,  play  up  and  down  the  briny  spar 

Odors  of  Surinam  and  Zanzibar, 

Till  blithely  thence  he  ploughs,  in  visions  new, 

The  Labradorian  blue ; 

All  homeless  hurricanes  about  him  break; 

The  purples  of  spent  day  he  sees 

From  Samos  to  the  Hebrides, 

And  drowned  men  dancing  darkly  in  his  wake. 

Where  the  small  deadly  foam-caps,   well  descried, 
Top,  tier  on  tier,  the  hundred-mountained  tide, 


90        ODE  FOR  A  MASTER  MARINER  ASHORE 

Away,  and  far  away,  his  pride  is  borne, 

Riding  the  noisy  morn. 

Plunges,  and  preens  her  wings,  and  laughs  to  know 

The  helm  and  tightening  halyards  still 

Follow  the  urging  of  his  will. 

And  scoff  at  sullen  earth  a  league  below. 

Mischance  hath  barred  him  from  his  heirdom  high, 

And  shackled  him  with  many  an  inland  tie, 

And  of  his  only  wisdom  made  a  jibe 

Amid  an  alien  tribe: 

No  wave  abroad  but  moans  his  fallen  state, 

The  trade-wind  ranges  now,  the  trade-wind   roars! 

Why  is  it  on  a  yellowing  page  he  pores  ? 

Ah,  why  this  hawser  fast  to  a  garden  gate? 

Thou  friend  so  long  withdrawn,  so  deaf,  so  dim. 

Familiar  Danger,  O  forget  not  him! 

Repeat  of  thine  evangel  yet  the  whole 

Unto  his  subject  soul, 

Who  suffers  no  such  palsy  of  her  drouth, 

Nor  hath  so  tamely  worn  her  chain, 

But  she  may  know  that  voice  again. 

And  shake  the  reefs  with  answer  of  her  mouth. 

O  give  him  back,  before  his  passion  fail. 

The  singing  cordage  and  the  hollow  sail. 

And  level  with  those  aged  eyes  let  be 

The  bright  unsteady  sea; 

And  move  like  any  film  from  off  his  brain 

The  pasture  wall,  the  boughs  that  run- 

Their  evening  arches  to  the  sun. 

The  hamlet  spire  across  the  sown  champaign; 


IN  LEINSTER  91 

And  on  the  shut  space  and  the  trivial  hour, 

Turn  the  great  floods !  and  to  thy  spousal  bower, 

With  rapt  arrest  and  solemn  loitering. 

Him  whom  thou  lovedst  bring: 

That  he,  thy  faithful  one,  with  praising  lip, 

Not  having,  at  the  last,  less  grace 

Of  thee  than  had  his  roving  race, 

Sum  up  his  strength  to  perish  with  a  ship. 


IN  LEINSTER 

By  Louise  Imogen  Guiney 

I  TRY  to  knead  and  spin,  but  my  life  is  low  the  while. 
Oh,  I  long  to  be  alone,  and  walk  abroad  a  mile; 
Yet  if  I  walk  alone,  and  think  of  naught  at  all, 
Why  from  me  that's  young  should  the  wild  tears  fall  ? 

The  shower-stricken  earth,  the  earth-colored  streams, 
They  breathe  on  me  awake,  and  moan  to  me  in  dreams ; 
And  yonder  ivy  fondling  the  broke  castle-wall, 
It  pulls  upon  my  heart  till  the  wild  tears  fall. 

The  cabin-door  looks  down,  a  furze-lighted  hill. 
And  far  as  Leighlin  Cross  the  fields  are  green  and  still ; 
But  once  I  hear  the  blackbird  in  Leighlin  hedges  call. 
The  foolishness  is  on  me,  and  the  wild  tears  fall! 


92  AUNT  MARY 

AUNT  MARY 

A  Christmas  Chant 
By  Robert  Stephen  Hawker 

Now,  of  all  the  trees  by  the  king's  highway, 

Which  do  you  love  the  best? 
O !  the  one  tTiat  is  green  upon  Christmas  Day, 
The  bush  with  the  bleeding  breast. 
Now  the  holly  with  her  drops  of  blood  for  me : 
For  that  is  our  dear  Aunt  Mary's  tree. 

Its  leaves  are  sweet  with  our  Saviour's  Name, 

'Tis  a  plant  that  loves  the  poor:. 
Summer  and  winter  it  shines  the  same 
Beside  the  cottage  door. 
O !  the  holly  with  her  drops  of  blood  for  me  : 
For  that  is  our  kind  Aunt  Mary's  tree. 

'Tis  a  bush  that  the  birds  will  never  leave : 

They  sing  in  it  all  day  long; 
But  sweetest  of  all  upon  Christmas  Eve 
Is  to  hear  the  robin's  song. 
'Tis  the  merriest  sound  upon  earth  or  sea: 
For  it  comes  from  our  own  Aunt  Mary's  tree. 

So,  of  all  that  grows  by  the  king's  highway, 

I  love  that  tree  the  best ; 
Tis  a  bower  for  the  birds  upon  Christmas  Day, 
The  bush  of  the  bleeding  breast. 
O!  the  holly  with  her  drops  of  blood  for  me: 
For  that  is  our  sweet  Aunt  Mary's  tree. 


KING  ARTHUR'S  WAES-HAEL  93 

KING  ARTHUR'S  WAES-HAEL 
By  Robert  Stephen  Hawker 

Waes-hael  for  knight  and  dame; 

O  merry  be  their  dole ; 
Drink-hael!     In  Jesu's  name 

We  fill  the  tawny  bowl; 
But  cover  down  the  curving  crest, 
Mould  of  the  Orient  Lady's  breast. 

Waes-hael!  yet  lift  no  lid: 

Drain  ye  the  reeds  for  wine. 
Drink-hael!  the  milk  was  hid 

That  soothed  that  Babe  divine ; 
Hush'd,  as  tbis  hollow  channel  flows, 
He  drew  the  balsam  from  the  rose. 

Waes-hael!  thus  glowed  the  breast 

Where  a  God  yearned  to  cling; 
Drink-hael!  so  Jesu  pressed 

Life  from  its  mystic  spring; 
Then  hush  and  bend  in  reverend  sign 
And  breathe  the  thrilling  reeds  for  wine. 

Waes-hael!  in  shadowy  scene 

Lo!    Christmas  children  we: 
Drink-hael !  behold  we  lean 

At  a  far  Mother's  knee; 
To  dream  that  thus  her  bosom  smiled, 
And  learn  the  lip  of  Bethlehem's  Child. 


94  OLD  NUNS 

OLD  NUNS 
By  James  M.  Hayes 

Our  Lady  smiles  on  youthful  nuns, 

She  loves  them  well. 
Our  Lady's  smile  like  sunshine  floods 

Each  convent  cell. 
But  fondest  falls  Our  Lady's  smile 

Where  old  nuns  dwell; 

Old  nuns  whose  hearts  are  young  with  love 

For  Mary's  Son, 
Old  nuns  whose  prayers  for  faltering  souls 

Have  victory  won. 
Old  nuns  whose  lives  are  beautiful 

With  service  done. 

Their  love  a  loveless  world  has  saved 

From  God's  dread  rod. 
The  paths  where  Sorrow  walks  with  Sin 

Their  feet  have  trod, 
Their  knees  have  worn  the  flags  that  pave 

The  house  of  God. 

Our  Lady  smiles  on  youthful  nuns, 

She  loves  them  well; 
Our  Lady's  smile  like  sunshine  floods 

Each  convent  cell; 
But  fondest  falls  Our  Lady's  smile 

Where  old  nuns  dwell. 


THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  ROSE  95 

THE  MOTHER  OF  THE  ROSE 
By  James  M.  Hayes 

I  KNEEL  on  Holy  Thursday  with  the  faithful  worship- 
ping 

Where  Christ  is  throned  in  splendor  as  the  sacramental 
King. 

I  ever  will  remember  it,  that  wondrous  full-blown  rose 
Among  the  burning  tapers  on  the  altar  of  repose. 

O  blessed  among  roses  all,  to  bloom  in  beauty  there, 
To  give  your  heart  unto  your  God  and  in  His  glory  share. 


In  quiet  fields  beyond  the  town,  near  where  the  river 

flows 
There   is   a   humble   garden   where   a   gentle   rose-tree 

grows. 

To-night  Our  Lord  remembers  on  the  altar  of  repose 
This  rose-tree  in  the  fields  afar,  the  mother  of  the  rose. 


96  THE  TRANSFIGURATION 

THE  TRANSFIGURATION 
By  James  M.  Hayes 

He  seeks  the  mountains  where  the  olives  grow> 
The  Lord  of  Glory,  veiled  in  humble  guise ; 

His  soul  is  shadowed  with  a  coming  woe, 
The  grief  of  all  the  world  is  in  His  eyes: 

His  spirit  struggles  in  the  dark  caress 

Of  anguish,  pain  and  utter  loneliness. 

He  always  loved  the  mountain  tops,  for  there 
Away  from  earth,  He  treads  the  mystic  ways. 

And  sees  the  vision  of  the  Fairest  Fair, 
As  Heaven  dawns  upon  His  raptured  gaze; 

The  loneliness,  the  pain,  the  grief  depart; 

Surpassing  gladness  fills  His  Sacred  Heart. 

That  day  He  stood  upon  the  olive  hill, 

And  Peter,  James  and  John  in  wonder  saw 

The  burning  glories  of  the  God-head  fill 
His  soul  with  grandeur,  and  in  holy  awe 

They  fell  upon  the  ground  and  cried  for  grace, 

Lest  they  should  die  beholding  God's  own  Face. 

As  minor  chords  that  sob  from  strings  of  gold 
The  Master  speaks  in  accents  sweet  and  sad: 

The  vision  past,  the  chosen  three  behold 

No  one  but  Jesus  and  their  souls  are  glad. 

The  awe,  the  splendor  and  the  glory  gone, 

How  sweet  the  face  of  Christ  to  look  upon! 


BELOVED,  IT  IS  MORN  97 

BELOVED,  IT  IS  MORN 

By  Emily  H.  Hickey 

Beloved,  it  is  mom! 

A  redder  berry  on  the  thorn, 
A  deeper  yellow  on  the  corn, 
For  this  good  day  new-born. 
Pray,  Sweet,  for  me 
That  I  may  be 
Faithful  to  God  and  thee. 

Beloved,  it  is  day! 

And  lovers  work,  as  children  play, 
With  heart  and  brain  untired  alway: 
Dear  love,  look  up  and  pray. 
Pray,  Sweet,  for  me 
That  I  may  be 
Faithful  to  God  and  thee. 

Beloved,  it  is  night ! 

Thy  heart  and  mine  are  full  of  light. 
Thy  spirit  shineth  clear  and  white, 
God  keep  thee  in  His  sight! 
Pray,  Sweet,  for  me 
That  I  may  be 
Faithful  to  God  and  thee. 


98  A  SEA  STORY 

A  SEA  STORY 
By  Emily  H.  Hickey 

Silence.    A  while  ago 

Shrieks  went  up  piercingly; 
But  now  is  the  ship  gone  down; 

Good  ship,  well  manned,  was  she. 
There's  a  raft  that's  a  chance  of  life  for  one, 

This  day  upon  the  sea. 

A  chance  for  one  of  two; 

Young,  strong,  are  he  and  he, 
Just  in  the  manhood  prime. 

The  comelier,  verily, 
For  the  wrestle  with  wind  and  weather  and  wave. 

In  the  life  upon  the  sea. 

One  of  them  has  a  wife 

And  little  children  three ; 
Two  that  can  toddle  and  lisp, 

And  a  suckling  on  the  knee: 
Naked  they'll  go,  and  hunger  sore. 

If  he  be  lost  at  sea. 

One  has  a  dream  of  home, 

A  dream  that  well  may  be: 
He  never  has  breathed  it  yet; 

She  never  has  known  it,  she. 
But  some  one  will  be  sick  at  heart 

If  he  be  lost  at  sea. 


THE  STARLIGHT  NIGHT  99 

'Wife  and  kids  at  home! — 

Wife,  kids,  nor  home  has  he! — 
Give  us  a  chance,  Bill !"     Then, 

"All  right,  Jem!"     Quietly 
A  man  gives  up  his  life  for  a  man, 

This  day  upon  the  sea. 


THE  STARLIGHT  NIGHT 
By  Gerard  Hopkins,  S.J. 

Look  at  the  stars !  look,  look  up  at  the  skies ! 

O  look  at  all  the  fire-folk  sitting  in  the  air! 

The  bright  boroughs,  the  quivering  citadels  there! 
The  dim  woods  quick  with  diamond  wells;  the  elf-eyes! 
The  grey  lawns  cold  where  quaking  gold-dew  lies! 

Wind-beat  white-beam ;  airy  abeles  all  on  flare ! 

Flake-doves  sent  floating  out  at  a  farmyard  scare! — 
Ah  well !  it  is  a  purchase  and  a  prize. 

Buy  then!     Bid  then! — What? — Prayer,  patience,  alms, 

vows, — 
Look,  look!  a  May-mess,  like  on  orchard  boughs; 
Look !       March-bloom,     like    on    mealed-with-yellow 
sallows. — 
These  are  indeed  the  barn:  within-doors  house 
The  shocks.    This  piece-bright  paling  hides  the  Spouse 
Christ,  and  the  mother  of  Christ  and  all  his  hallows. 


100  THE  HABIT  OF  PERFECTION 

THE  HABIT  OF  PERFECTION 
By  Gerard  Hopkins,  SJ. 

Elected  Silence,  sing  to  me 
And  beat  upon  my  whorled  ear, 
Pipe  me  to  pastures  still  and  be 
The  music  that  I  care  to  hear. 

Shape  nothing,  lips;  be  lovely-dumb: 
It  is  the  shut,  the  curfew  sent 
From  there  where  all  surrenders  come 
Which '  only  make  you-  eloquent. 

Be  shelled,  eyes,  with  double  dark 
And  find  the  uncreated  light ; 
This  ruck  and  reel  which  you  remark 
Coils,  keeps,  and  teases  simple  sight. 

Palate,  the  hutch  of  tasty  lust. 
Desire  not  to  be  rinsed  with  wine: 
The  can  must  be  so  sweet,  the  crust 
So  fresh  that  come  in  fasts  divine! 

Nostrils,  your  careless  breath  that  spend 
Upon  the  stir  and  keep  of  pride. 
What  relish  shall  the  censers  send 
Along  the  sanctuary  side! 

O  feel-of-primrose  hands,  O   feet 
That  want  the  yield  of  plushy  sward. 
But  you  shall  walk  the  golden  street. 
And  you  unhouse  and  house  the  Lord. 


SPRING  101 


And,  Poverty,  be  thou  the  bride 
And  now  the  marriage  feast  begun, 
And  lily-colored  clothes  provide 
Your  spouse  not  labored-at,  nor  spun. 


SPRING 
By  Gerard  Hopkins,  S,J. 

Nothing  is  so  beautiful  as  spring — 
When  weeds,  in  wheels,   shoot  long  and  lovely  and 
lush : 
Thrush's  eggs  look  little  low  heavens,  and  thrush 
Through  the  echoing  timber  does  so  rinse  and  wring 
The  ear,  it  strikes  like  lightnings  to  hear  him  sing; 
The  glassy  pear-tree  leaves  and  blooms,  they  brush 
The  descending  blue;  that  blue  is  all  in  a  rush 
With  richness ;  the  racing  lambs  too  have  fair  their  fling. 

What  is  all  this  juice  and  all  this  joy? 

A  strain  of  the  earth's  sweet  being  in  the  beginning 
In  Eden  garden.    Have,  get,  before  it  cloy. 

Before  it  cloud,  Christ,  lord,  and  sour  with  shining. 
Innocent  mind  and  Mayday  in  girl  and  boy. 

Most,  O  maid's  child,  thy  choice  and  worthy  the  win- 
ning. 


102  THE  FRIAR  OF  GENOA 

THE  FRIAR  OF  GENOA 

By  Scharmel  Iris 

In  Genoa  a  friar  walked; 

Of  every  sacred  tale  he  talked; 

Alone  he  dwelt,  in  prayer  he  knelt; 

"Ave  Maria,  Ave   Maria!" 
From  dawn  till  dusk  he  sang. 

His  bruised  and  blistered  feet  were  bare; 
His  head  burned  in  the  sunlight's  glare. 
On  stones  he  slept,  and  worked  and  wept, 

"Ave   Maria,   Ave   Maria!" 
In  every  blow  or  pang. 

Out  of  his  dole  he  clothed  the  poor, 

And  every  hardship  did  endure; 

He  blessed  the  meek  and  nursed  the  weak 

"Ave   Maria,   Ave   Maria!" 
With  each   succeeding  day. 

And  begged  for  alms  for  those  in  need, 
A  kind  word  spoke  with  every  deed, 
With  sinners  dined  and  led  the  blind — 

"Ave  Maria,  Ave  Maria!" 
Until  he  passed  away. 

And  is  his  work  done?    Ah,  surprise! 
Out  of  the  tomb  where  low  he  lies 
A  perfume  blows,  as  of  a  rose: 
"Ave  Maria,  Ave   Maria!" 
It  sings  in  shade  or  sun. 


THE  DARK  ANGEL  103 

And  he  who  breathes  it,  him  it  feeds, 
And  stirs  his  heart  to  noble  deeds; 
And  one  has  said,  "He  is  not  dead — * 

Ave  Maria,  Ave  Maria!' 
His  life  has  just  begun !" 

THE  DARK  ANGEL 

By  Lionel  Johnson 

Dark  Angel^  with  thine  aching  lust 
To  rid  the  world  of  penitence : 
Malicious  Angel,  who  still  dost 
My  soul  such  subtile  violence! 

Because  of  thee,  no  thought,  no  thing, 
Abides  for  me  undesecrate: 
Dark  Angel,  ever  on  the  wing, 
Who  never  reachest  me  too  late ! 

When  music  sounds,  then  changest  thou 
Its  silvery  to  a  sultry  fire: 
Nor  will  thine  envious  heart  allow 
Delight  untortured  by  desire. 

Through  thee,  the  gracious  Muses  turn 
To  Furies,  O  mine  Enemy  I 
And  all  the  things  of  beauty  burn 
With  flames  of  evil  ecstasy. 

Because  of  thee,  the  land  of  dreams 
Becomes  a  gathering  place  of  fears : 
Until  tormented  slumber  seems 
One  vehemence  of  useless  tears. 


104  THE  DARK  ANGEL 

When  sunlight  glows  upon  the  flowers, 
Or  ripples  down  the  dancing  sea: 
Thou,  with  thy  troop  of  passionate  powers, 
Beleaguerest,  bewilderest,  me. 

Within  the  breath  of  autumn  woods, 
Within  the  winter  silences: 
Thy  venomous  spirit  stirs  and  broods, 
O  Master  of  impieties! 

The  ardour  of  red  flame  is  thine, 
And  thine  the  steely  soul  of  ice : 
Thou  poisonest  the  fair  design 
Of  nature,  with  unfair  device. 

Apples  of  ashes,  golden  bright; 
Waters  of  bitterness,  how  sweet! 

0  banquet  of  a  foul  delight, 
Prepared  by  thee,  dark  Paraclete! 

Thou  art  the  whisper  in  the  gloom. 
The  hinting  tone,  the  haunting  laugh: 
Thou  art  the  adorner  of  my  tomb, 
The  minstrel  of  mine  epitaph. 

1  fight  thee,  in  the  Holy  Name! 

Yet,  what  thou  dost,  is  what  God   saith: 

Tempter!  should  I  escape  thy  flame. 

Thou  wilt  have  helped  my  soul   from  Death; 

The  second  Death,  that  never  dies, 
That  cannot  die,  when  time  is  dead : 
Live  Death,  wherein  the  lost  soul  cries. 
Eternally  uncomforted. 


TE  MARTY  RUM  CAN  DID  AT  US  105 

Dark  Angel,  with  thine  aching  lust! 
Of  two  defeats,  of  two  despairs: 
Less  dread,  a  change  to  drifting  dust. 
Than  thine  eternity  of  cares. 

Do  what  thou  wilt,  thou  shalt  not  so. 
Dark  Angel !  triumph  over  me : 
Lonely,  unto  the  Lone  I  go; 
Divine,  to  the  Divinity. 


TE  MARTYRUM  CANDIDATUS 

By  Lionel  Johnson 

Ah,  see  the  fair  chivalry  come,  the  companions  of  Christ! 
White  Horsemen,  who  ride  on  white  horses,  the  Knights 

of  God! 
They,  for  their  Lord  and  their  Lover  who  sacrificed 
All,  save  the  sweetness  of  treading,  where  He  first  trod ! 

These  through  the  darkness  of  death,  the  dominion  of 

night, 
Swept,  and  they  woke  in  white  places  at  mornmg  tide : 
They  saw  with  their  eyes,  and  sang  for  joy  of  the  sight. 
They  saw  with  their  eyes  the  Eyes  of  the  Crucified. 

Now,  whithersoever  He  goeth,  with  Him  they  go: 
White  Horsemen,  who  ride  on  white  horses,  oh  fair  to 

see! 
They  ride,  where  the  Rivers  of  Paradise  flash  and  flow. 
White   Horsemen,  with   Christ   their   Captain;    forever 

He! 


106  CHRISTMAS  AND  IRELAND 

CHRISTMAS  AND  IRELAND 
By  Lionel  Johnson 

The  golden  stars  give  warmthless  fire, 
As  weary  Mary  goes  through  night: 

Her  feet  are  torn  by  stone  and  briar ; 
She  hath  no  rest,  no  strength,  no  light: 

O  Mary,  weary  in  the  snow, 
Remember  Ireland's  woe! 

O  Joseph,  sad  for  Mary's  sake! 

Look  on  our  earthly  Mother  too: 
Let  not  the  heart  of  Ireland  break 

With  agony  the  ages  through: 
For  Mary's  love,  love  also  thou 
Ireland,  and  save  her  now ! 

Harsh  were  the  folk,  and  bitter  stern, 
At  Bethlehem,  that  night  of  nights. 

For  you  no  cheering  hearth  shall  burn: 
We  have  no  room  here,  you  no  rights. 

O  Mary  and  Joseph;  hath  not  she, 
Ireland,  been  even  as  ye? 

The  ancient  David's  royal  house 

Was  thine.  Saint  Joseph!  wherefore  she, 

Mary,  thine  Ever  Virgin  Spouse, 
To  thine  own  city  went  with  thee. 

Behold !.  thy  citizens  disown 
The  heir  of  David's  throne ! 


CHRISTMAS  AND  IRELAND  107 

Nay,  more!     The  very  King  of  Kings 
Was  with  you,  coming  to  His  own : 

They  thrust  Him  forth  to  lowHest  things; 
The  poor,  meek  beasts  of  toil  alone 

Stood  by,  when  came  to  piteous  birth 
The  God  of  all  the  earth. 

And  she,  our  Mother  Ireland,  knows 

Insult,  and  infamies  of  wrong: 
Her  innocent  children  clad  with  woes, 

Her  weakness  trampled  by  the  strong: 
And  still  upon  her  Holy  Land 
Her  pitiless  foemen  stand. 

From  Manger  unto  Cross  and  Crown 
Went  Christ:  and  Mother  Mary  passed 

Through  Seven  Sorrows,  and  sat  down 
Upon  the  Angel  Throne  at  last. 

Thence,  Mary!  to  thine  own  Child  pray, 
For  Ireland's  hope  this  day ! 

She  wanders  amid  winter  still, 

The  dew  of  tears  is  on  her  face: 
Her  wounded  heart  takes  yet  its  fill 

Of  desolation  and  disgrace. 
God  still  is  God !     And  through  God  she 
Foreknows  her  joy  to  be. 

The  snows  shall  perish  at  the  spring, 

The  flowers  pour  fragrance  round  her  feet: 

Ah,  Jesus!  Mary!  Joseph!  bring 
This  mercy  from  the  Mercy  Seat! 

Send  it,  sweet  King  of  Glory,  born 
Humbly  on  Christmas  Morn! 


108  TO  MY  PATRONS 

TO  MY  PATRONS 
By  Lionel  Johnson 

Thy  spear  rent  Christ,  when  dead  for  me  He  lay : 
My  sin  rends  Christ,  though  never  one  save  He 

Perfectly  loves  me,  comforts  me.    Then  pray, 
Longinus  Saint!  the  Crucified,  for  me. 

Hard  is  the  holy  war,  and  hard  the  way : 
At  rest  with  ancient  victors  would  I  be. 

O  faith's  'first  glory  from  our  England!  pray, 
St.  Alban!  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  for  me. 

Fain  would  I  watch  with  thee,  till  morning  gray, 
Beneath  the  stars  austere:  so  might  I  see 

Sunrise,  and  light,  and  joy,  at  last.  Then  pray, 
John  Baptist  Saint!  unto  the  Christ,  for  me. 

Remembering  God's  coronation  day; 

Thorns  for  His  crown ;  His  throne,  a  Cross :  to  thee 
Heaven's  kingdom  dearer  was  than  earth's.  Then  pray 

Saint  Louis!  to  the  King  of  kings,  for  me. 

Thy  love  loved  all  things :  thy  love  knew  no  stay, 
But  drew  the  very  wild  beasts  round  thy  knee. 

O  lover  of  the  least  and  lowest!  pray. 

Saint  Francis!  to  the  Son  of  Man,  for  me. 

Bishop  of  souls  in  servitude  astray. 

Who  didst  for  holy  service  set  them  free: 

Use  still  thy  discipline  of  love,  and  pray, 

Saint  Charles !  unto  the  world's  High  Priest,  for  me. 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  109 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

(Upon  reading  the  poem  of  that  name  in  the 
Underwoods  of  Mr.  Stevenson) 

By  Lionel  Johnson 

Far  from  the  world,  far  from  cklight, 
Distinguishing  not  day  from  night ; 
Vowed  to  one  sacrifice  of  all 
The  happy  things,  that  men  befall; 
Pleading  one  sacrifice,  before 
Whom  sun  and  sea  and  wind  adore; 
Far  from  earth's  comfort,  far  away, 
We  cry  to  God,  we  cry  and  pray 
For  men,  who  have  the  common  day. 
Dance,  merry  world!  and  sing:  but  we. 
Hearing,  remember  Calvary: 
Get  gold,  and  thrive  you!  but  the  sun 
Once  paled;  and  the  centurion 
Said:     This  dead  man  was  God's  own  Son. 
Think  you,  we  shrink  from  common  toil, 
Works  of  the  mart,  works  of  the  soil; 
That,  prisoners  of  strong  despair, 
We  breathe  this  melancholy  air; 
Forgetting  the  dear  calls  of  race, 
And  bonds  of  house,  and  ties  of  place; 
That,  cowards,  from  the  field  we  turn, 
And   heavenward,   in  our   weakness,   yearn? 
Unjust!  unjust!  while  you  despise 
Our  lonely  years,  our  mournful  cries: 
You  are  the  happier  for  our  prayer; 
The  guerdon  of  our  souls,  you  share. 
Not  in  such  feebleness  of  heart, 
We  play  our  solitary  part; 


110  OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

Not  fugitives  of  battle,  we 

Hide  from  the  world,  and  let  things  be: 

But  rather,  looking  over  earth, 

Between  the  bounds  of  death  and  birth; 

And  sad  at  heart,  for  sorrow  and  sin, 

We  wondered,  where  might  help  begin. 

And  on  our  wonder  came  God's  choice, 

A  sudden  light,  a  clarion  voice. 

Clearing  the  dark,  and  sounding  clear: 

And  we  obeyed :  behold  us,  here ! 

In  prison  bound,  but  with  your  chains: 

Sufferers,  but  of  alien  pains. 

Merry  the  world,  and  thrives  apace, 

Each  in  his  customary  place: 

Sailors  upon  the  carrying  sea, 

Shepherds  upon  the  pasture  lea. 

And  merchants  of  the  town;  and  they, 

Who  march  to  death,  the  fighting  way; 

And  there  are  lovers  in  the  spring, 

With  those,  who  dance,  and  those,  who  sing; 

The  commonwealth  of  every  day, 

Eastward  and  westward,    far  away. 

Once  the  sun  paled ;  once  cried  aloud 

The  Roman,  from  beneath  the  cloud: 

This  day  the  Son  of  God  is  dead! 

Yet  heed  men,  what  the  Roman  said? 

They  heed  not:  we  then  heed  for  them, 

The  mindless  of  Jerusalem; 

Careless,  they  live  and  die :  but  we 

Care,  in  their  stead,  for  Calvary. 

O  joyous  men  and  women!  strong. 

To  urge  the  wheel  of  life  along, 


CADGWITH  111 

With  strenuous  arm,  and  cheerful  strain, 

And  wisdom  of  I'aborous  brain: 

We  give  our  life,  our  heart,  our  breath, 

That  you  may  live  to  conquer  death; 

That,  past  your  tomb,  with  souls  in  health, 

Joy  may  be  yours,  and  blessed  wealth; 

Through  vigils  of  the  painful  night. 

Our  spirits  with  your  tempters  fight: 

For  you,  for  you,  we  live  alone, 

Where  no  joy  comes,  where  cold  winds  moan: 

Nor  friends  have  we,  nor  have  we  foes ; 

Our  Queen  is  of  the  lonely  Snows. 

Ah!  and  sometimes,   our   prayers  between, 

Come  sudden  thoughts  of   what  hath  been: 

Dreams!    And  from  dreams,  once  more  we  fall 

To  prayer :    God  save,  Christ  keep,  them  all. 

And  thou,   who  knowest  not  these  things, 

Hearken,  what  news  our  message  brings! 

Our  toils,  thy  joy  of  Hfe  forgot: 

Our  lives  of  prayer  forget  thee  not. 

CADGWITH 

By  Lionel  Johnson 

My  windows  open  to  the  autumn  night, 

In  vain  I  watched  for  sleep  to  visit  me : 

How  should  sleep  dull  mine  ears,  and  dim  my  sight, 

Who  saw  the  stars,  and  listened  to  the  sea? 

Ah,  how  the  City  of  our  God  is  fair ! 

If,  without  sea  and  starless  though  it  be, 

For  joy  of  the  majestic  beauty  there. 

Men  shall  not  piiss  the  stars,  nor  mourn  the  sea. 


112  A  FRIEND 

A  FRIEND 

By  Lionel  Johnson 

All,  that  he  came  to  give, 
He  gave,  and  went  again : 
I  have  seen  one  man  live, 
I  have  seen  one  man  reign. 
With  all  the  graces  in  his  train. 

As  one  of  us,  he  wrought 
Things  of  the  common  hour : 
Whence  was  the  charmed  soul  brought. 
That  gave  each  act  such  power; 
The  natural  beauty  of  a  flower? 

Magnificence  and  grace, 

Excellent  courtesy: 

A  brightness  on  the  face, 

Airs  of  high  memory: 

Whence  came  all  these,  to  such  as  he? 

Like  young  Shakespearian  kings, 

He  won  the  adoring  throng: 

And,  as  Apollo  sings, 

He  triumphed  with  a  song: 

Triumphed,  and  sang,  and  passed  along. 

With  a  light  word  he  took 

The  'hearts  of  men  in  thrall : 

And,  with  a  golden  look, 

Welcomed  them,  at  his  call 

Giving  their  bye,  their  strength,  their  ajl, 


BY  THE  STATUE  OF  KING  CHARLES  113 

No  man  less  proud  than  he. 
Nor  cared  for  homage  less; 
Only,  he  could  not  be 
Far  off  from  happiness: 
Nature  was  bound  to  his  success. 

Weary,  the  cares,  the  jars 

The  lets,  of  every  day: 

But  the  heavens  filled  with  stars. 

Chanced  he  upon  the  way : 

And  where  he  stayed,  all  joy  would  stay. 

Now,  when  sad  night  draws  down, 
When  the  austere  stars  burn: 
Roaming  the  vast  stars  burn: 
My  thoughts  and  memories  yearn 
Toward  him,  who  never  will  return. 

Yet  I  have  seen  him  live, 

And  owned  my  friend,  a  king : 

And  that  he  came  to  give, 

He  gave,  and  I,  who  sing 

His  praise,  bring  all  I  have  to  bring. 


BY  THE  STATUE  OF  KING  CHARLES  AT 
CHARING  CROSS 

By  Lionel  Johnson 

Sombre  and  rich,  the  skies; 

Great  glooms  and  starry  plains. 
Gently  the  night  wind  sighs; 
'  Else  a  vast  silence  reigns. 


114  BY  THE  STATUE  OF  KING  CHARLES 

The  splendid  silence  clings 
Around  me:  and  around 

The  saddest  of  all  kings 

Crowned,  and  again  discrowned. 

Comely  and  calm,  he  rides 
Hard  by  his  own  Whitehall: 

Only  the  night  wind  glides : 
No  crowds,  nor  rebels,  brawl. 

Gone,  too,  his  Court:  and  yet, 
The  stars  his  courtiers  are ; 

Stars  in  their  stations  set; 
And  every  wandering  star. 

Alone  he  rides,  alone. 
The  fair  and  fatal  king: 

Dark  night  is  all  his  own, 

That  strange  and  solemn  thing. 

Which  are  more  full  of  fate: 
The  stars;  or  those  sad  eyes? 

Which  are  more  still  and  great: 
Those  brows;  or  the  dark  skies? 

Although  his  whole  heart  yearn 

In  passionate  tragedy : 
Never  was  face  so  stern 

With  sweet  austerity. 

Vanquished  in  life,  his  death 
By  beauty  made  amends : 

The  passing  of  his  breath 
Won  his  defeated  ends. 


THE  HOUSEWIFE'S  PRAYER  115 

Brief  life,  and  hapless?    Nay: 
Through  death,  life  grew  sublime. 

Speak  after  sentence?    Yea: 
And  to  the  end  of  time. 

Armoured  he  rides,  his  head 

Bare  to  the  stars  of  doom : 
He  triumphs  now,  the  dead, 

Beholding  London's  gloom. 

Our  wearier  spirit  faints. 

Vexed  in  the  world's  employ: 
His  soul  was  of  the  saints ; 

And  art  to  him  was  joy. 

King,  tried  in  fires  of  woe ! 

Men  hunger  for  thy  grace : 
And  through  the  night  I  go, 

Loving  thy  mournful  face. 

•Yet,  when  the  city  sleeps ; 

When  all  the  cries  are  still : 
The  stars  and  heavenly  deeps 

Work  out  a  perfect  will. 


THE  HOUSEWIFE'S  PRAYER 

By  Blanche  Mary  Kelly 

Lady,  who  with  tender  word 
Didst  keep  the  house  of  Christ  the  Lord, 
Who  didst  set  forth  the  bread  and  wine 
Before  the  Living  Wheat  and  Vine, 
Reverently  didst  make  the  bed 


116  BROTHER  JUNIPER 

Whereon  was  laid  the  holy  Head 
That  such  a  cruel  pillow  prest 
For  our  behoof,  on  Calvary's  crest ; 
Be  beside  me  while  I  go 
About  my  labors  to  and  fro. 
Speed  the  wheel  and  speed  the  loom. 
Guide  the  needle  and  the  broom, 
Make  my  bread  rise  sweet  and  light. 
Make  my  cheese  come  foamy  white. 
Yellow  may  my  butter  be 
As  cowslips  blowing  on  the  lea. 
Homely  though  my  tasks  and  small, 
Be  beside  me  at  them  all. 
Then  when  I  shall  stand  to  face 
Jesu  in  the  judgment  place, 
To  me  thy  gracious  help  afford, 
Who  art  the  Handmaid  of  the  Lord. 


BROTHER  JUNIPER 

By  Blanche  Mary  Kelly 

As  unto  Francis  Poverty, 
So  Folly  was  a  bride  to  thee. 
Not  the  jade  that  fashions  quips 
For  the  smiles  of  mocking  lips, 
And  in  the  face  of  stony  Death 
Capers  till  she's  out  of  breath, 
But  the  maid  that  moves  and  sings 
About  divinely  foolish  things, 
She  that  gives  her  substance  all 
For  love,  and  laughs  to  find  it  small, 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING  117 

She  that  drew  God's  Son  to  be 

A  butt,  a  jest  on  Calvary, 

And  'neath  the  leper's  guise  doth  know 

The  King  in  his  incognito. 

The  world  is  grown  too  wise,  and  we 

Go  our  sad  ways  sensibly. 

O,  would  that  our  lean  souls  might  win 

Some  grace  of  thine,  God's  harlequin, 

Whose  days  were  lavished  like  fool's  gold 

Upon  His  pleasures  manifold. 

"Would  God,"  cried  Francis,  on  his  knees, 

"I  had  a  forest  of  such  trees!" 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING 

By  Francis  Clement  Kelley 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  its  golden  glow 
Deepened  the  shadows  on  the  village  street, 
And  reverent  touched  the  beauty  of  the  head 
Of  Him  who  sat,  in  thought,  beside  the  well 
Of  Nazareth.    Two  women  came  to  fill 
Their  earthen  jars ;  and  sent  their  burdens  down 
To  where  the  water  lay ;  then  drew  them  up. 
But  still  the  Boy,  unmoved,  gazed  steadily 
Upon  the  distant  hills,  that  girded  round 
Jerusalem,  the  City  of  the  Soul. 

His  eyes  were  deep  as  some  unfathomed  sea, 
That  tosses  wreckage  on  its  billowed  crest; 
But  hides  its  treasures  ever  in  the  caves. 


118  THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING 

That  men  shall  never  touch,  or  touching  die. 
"How  strange  the  Boy,"  one  woman  softly  said 
As  back  they  went,  their  burdens  on  their  heads. 
"Yet  He  is  Joseph's  Son,"  the  other  spoke. 
And  Joseph  is  my  neighbor,  a  just  man; 
But  not  more  lettered  than  the  other  men, 
Your  own  and  mine.    He  is  not  priest  nor  scribe 
That  he  could  teach  such  wisdom  to  his  Son. 
And  it  doth  sometimes  seem  the  Boy  is  wise 
Beyond  His  years,  with  knowledge  overmuch." 
"His  mother,  whom  I  know,"  her  friend  replied, 
"As  Mary,  sweeps  the  shavings  from  the  floor, 
Cooks  the  poor  fare  for  Joseph  and  her  Son, 
Cares  for  the  water,  and  her  jar  brings  here 
As  we  do  every  day,  who  know  not  much 
Beyond  the  things  we  hear  from  holy  men. 
Yet  strange  is  Mary  too;  I  know  not  where 
To  match  the  peace  that's  on  her  tranquil  brow; 
Though,  through  it  all,  I've  seen  the  Shadow  there 
The  dread  of  days  to  come,  though  all  resigned. 
So  like  His  mother  is  this  only  Son 
In  beauty,  in  the  peace  that's  on  His  face ; 
But  sometimes,  deeper  still,  the  Shadow  falls 
Across  His  features.    Look!  behold  it  now. 
For  it  doth  speak  the  dread  of  awful  things, 
More  awful  than  the  ruin  of  a  world !" 

A-down  the  street  there  rang  a  clatter  loud 
Of  horses  dashing  in  a  maddened  run, 
And  sounds  of  wheels  swift  rolling  on  the  pave. 
The  women  shrank  affrighted  to  the  wall, 
And  cowered  there  in  trembling,  mortal  fear. 
In  view  the  charging  horses  passed  along 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING  119 

Straight  to  the  well,  no  driver  grasped  the  reins, 

For  he  had  fallen  to  the  stony  -street. 

Yet  never  moved  the  Boy,  nor  turned  His  eyes 

From  off  the  hills  that  held  them  so  intent. 

But  from  a  doorway  rushed  a  stranger  lad 

Who  grasped  the  bit  of  one,  and  held  him  fast. 

The  others,  panting,  stopped  so  near  the  Boy 

That,  on  His  face  He  must  have  felt  the  heat 

Which  steaming  rose  from  their  perspiring  flanks, 

As  now  they  stood,  foam^flecked  and  trembling  by. 

The  driver  came  and  meekly  murmured  thanks, 

Before  he  led  his  charges  back  again 

To  where  his  master  waited  for  the  steeds. 

"He  gave  me  naug"ht  but  words,  and  I  did  save 

The  steeds.     The  chariot,  too,  would  have  been  dashed 

AH  broken  on  the  stones,  had  I  not  come." 

The  lad  was  angered,  but  the  Boy  moved  not, 

Though  from  the  distant  hills  His  gaze  was  drawn. 

"Dost  thou  not  know,"  the  lad  said,  wonderingly, 

"How  near  was  Death  to  thee  a  moment  since  ?" 

The  Boy,  now  fully  aroused,  smiled  at  the  lad 

All  kindly,  as  a  loving  father  smiles 

Upon  his  child  that  waked  him-  unaware. 

Whose  sleep  nor  storm  nor  clatter  could  affect, 

Yet  at  the  touch  of  little  baby  hands 

Opens  wide  his  eyes,  that  twinkle  joyfully. 

"No  nearer  to  grim  Death,"  the  Boy  replied, 

"Was  I  than  thou,  my  friend,  art  near  it  now. 

Thou  seekest  Joseph  and  hast  wandered  far 

From  distant  Jaffa,  where  thy  father  died. 

Thou'rt  Fidus  named.    From  Joseph  thou  wouldst  learn 

The  craftsman's  art,  and  how  to  handle  tools 


120  THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING 

"Xo  work  with  wood,  that  thou  thyself  may'st  be 
Like  him,  a  craftsman  skilled  in  his  own  trade." 
'A  prophet  Thou !"  the  lad  in  wonder  cried. 
'Come  with  me,"  made  He  answer.    "I  am  known 
As  Joseph's  Son;  so  I  will  speak  for  thee." 

As  evening  fell  on  Nazareth's  burning  street 

Each  day  these  two  would  wander  out  alone ; 

And  by  the  well,  or  in  a  quiet  glade 

Seated,  would  hold  their  talk,  with  none  to  hear. 

Yet  converse  scarce  it  was;  with  ears  intent, 

Fidus  did  always  listen,  while  the  Boy 

Poured  out  a  tale  of  Kings  and  Prophets  old ; 

Of  marvels  that  they  worked  to  testify 

Unto  a  King  whom  yet  the  earth  would  see, 

A  King  of  all  Judea  and  the  world ; 

Whose  glory,  mounting  even  to  the  stars 

Would  dim  with  rich  effulgence,  their  great  light 

The  Sun  of  Justice  He,  the  Moon  of  night 

That  had  for  ages  settled  o'er  the  earth. 

He  told  of  wonders  that  the  King  would  do 

Before  He  mounted  to  His  mighty  throne. 

He  told  of  love  surpassing  every  love 

That  earth  had  seen,  and  of  His  Kingdom  wide; 

Till  all  on  fire  Fidus  hung'red  to  see 

The  King  Himself,  and  worship  at  His  throne. 

"A  Roman  though  I  am,"  he  oft  would  cry, 

"Thy  King  I'd  welcome  and  for  Him  I'd  serve." 

'Yet  thou  art  craftsman  and  no  soldier  thou." 
"A  craftsman  too  can  serve  his  loyal  due." 

'How  wouldst  thou  serve?"  the  Boy  Inquiring  spoke. 

"When  Joseph  bids  me  go,  that  I  can  learn  no  more, 

This  I  can  do — ^to  build  for  Him  His  throne." 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING  121 

The  Shadow  swept  across  the  boyish  face — 

The  Shadow  Fidus  once  had  seen  before; 

And  he  was  silent,  for  in  awe  he  stood 

When  that  mysterious  shade  shut  off  the  light 

That  shone  out  from  the  radiant  brow. 

The  Shadow  was  not  fear,  nor  dread  of  death  j 

But  dread  of  something  worse  than  death  could  bring. 

It  was  as  if  a  Hly,  broken,  bent, 

But  yet  unsullied,  now  was  stained  with  filth 

By  impious  hand ;  more  cruel  far  than  death 

The  marring  of  the  whiteness  death  had  spared : 

Or  like  a  stream,  that  through  its  mountain  bed 

Had  raced  unfettered,  toward  the  amber  sea, 

And  o'er  the  rapids  and  the  pebbles  dashed 

Clear,  cold  and  placid  when  the  mouth  is  reached ; 

Then,  death  unfeared  before  it,  ready  now 

To  give  back  to  the  ocean  all  it  gave. 

Into  its  pureness  poured  a  stream  so  dark 

That  tainted  all  its  life,  when  life  was  lost. 

'Twas  thus  the  Shadow  seemed;  but  soon  it  passed, 

And  smiling  boyhood  turned  a  happy  face 

The  while  he  said:  "So  thou  wouldst  build  His  throne? 

But  dost  thou  know  the  form  that  throne  will  take  ?" 

"  'T  will  be  a  throne,"  Fidus  replied,  "so  high 
That  all  may  see  Him,  while  from  it  He  reigns. 
And  know  that  He  has  come  unto  His  own." 

"Aye,"  quick  the  Boy  made  answer,  "it  shall  be 

Uplifted  high  that  every  man  may  see ; 

Not  Jews  alone  but  even  ye  of  Rome ; 

And  men  from  Britain  too,  on  farthest  shore 

Of  Rome's  great  Empire:  they  shall  see  and  know 


122  THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING 

The  King  who  reigns  upon  that  living  throne; 
And  in  the  Islands  of  unchartered  seas 
The  King  shall  lifted  be,  that  all  may  know ; 
And  worlds  still  undiscovered  shall  bow  down 
To  do  Him  homage,  yet  shall  hate  His  name. 
For  homage  goes  with  hate,  and  hate  will  be 
The  measure  of  the  homage  that  shall  swell 
In  pgeans  great  around  the  royal  throne." 

Fidus  looked  wond'ring  at  the  Boy  Who  spoke, 
As  if  the  right  to  build  the  throne  were  His 
And  He  could  give  it  to  the  friend  who  asked 
This  only  boon,  as  pledge  of  love  untold. 

"And  I  would  build  it  strong  so  it  could  go 
O'er  sea  and  land,  and  last  for  aye  and  aye." 

"So  thou  wouldst  build  the  throne?"  again  the  Boy 
Half  musing  spoke.     Across  His  face  once  more 
The  Shadow  fell;  and,  as  he  stood.  His  hands 
He  lifted  up  and  out,  as  if  in  prayer. 
Another  Shadow  fell  upon  the  ground, 
The  arms  and  body  strangely  like  a  Cross. 
Fidus  was  silent  till  the  prayer  was  done. 
The  sun  now  set,  and  all  the  shadows  passed. 
They,  arm  in  arm,  ran  fast  to  Joseph's  house. 
But,  at  the  door  they  paused  and,  said  the  Boy; 
"Thou  must  remember  ever  this  thy  day 
When  I  the  promise  gave  that  I  can  keep. 
For  thou  shalt  build  His  throne !" 

The  years  passed  on, 

/*;n  i  Fidus  to  the  Roman  hosts  returned 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING  123 

Where,  welcomed  as  a  soldier's  clever  son. 
He  wrought  in  wood  for  all  the  legions  there 
In  Jaffa,  where  his  father  had  been  killed. 
For  eighteen  years  he  stayed  beside  the  sea 
And,  working  at  the  trade  that  Josefph  taught. 
He  never  once  forgot  the  precious  pledge 
The  Boy  had  made.     But  never  saw  nor  heard 
Aught  of  bis  friend.    Then  he  was  sent  away 
By  Pilate's  call,  unto  Jerusalem. 

The  evening  of  the  day  when  he  arrived 
Great  turmoil  swept  along  the  Jaffa  road. 
And  near  the  Gate  of  Gardens,  where  the  hill 
Called  Calvary  lifted  up  its  rocky  head. 
He  heard  the  crowds  discuss  a  Wonder-Man 
The  priests  had  taken,  and  was  on  His  way 
To  judgment.    "Out  on  such  a  King,"  cried  one, 
Himself  He  can  not  save  from  shameful  death. 
To-morrow's  sun  will  see  Him  lifted  up 
Above  the  hill,  and  throw  the  Shadow  of 
A  Cross  upon  you  fools  who  thought  Him  King." 

And  on  the  faces  dark  of  all  around, 

Fidus  saw  Hate  he  could  not  understand. 

Then  up  a  vision  rose  of  Nazareth 

When  evening  fell;  a  Boy  of  beauty  rare, 

With  a  strange  Shadow  on  His  lovely  face, 

Standing  with  arms  outstretched  in  prayer. 

The  glory  of  the  setting  sun  upon  His  head. 

But  long  and  grim  the  shadow  of  a  Cross 

Before  Him  as  He  stood.    Then  to  his  mind 

Came  swift  the  stories  of  the  mighty  King, 

And  then  the  promise :  "Thou  shalt  build  His  throne." 


124  THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING 

Alas!  the  long  and  wavering  years  had  swept 
The  dreams  of  youth  away;  but  still  remained 
The  love,  that  hungered  now  to  feel  the  hand 
Within  his  own  of  Mary's  Son.  The  day 
Rose  brightly  in  the  East.    At  Pilate's  door 
He  met  by  chance  a  captain  he  had  known 
In  Jaffa,  who  bade  him  attentive  wait 
Within  the  hall,  amongst  the  soldiers  there. 
But  soon  a  tumult  rose  without  the  doors ; 
The  Wonder-Man  was  coming  to  be  judged. 
Then,  as  the  cries  increased,  his  friend  came  in. 
"Make  thou  a  Cross,"  he  said,  "We  have  but  two 
And,  if  I  judge  aright,  three  shall  be  sent 
Beyond  the  wall  this  day  to  Calvary." 

No  more  of  shouting  Fidus  heard,  for  he 
Alone  made  ready  a  great  Cross  of  wood; 
And,  that  his  craftsman  skill  should  be  confessed, 
He  made  it  well,  both  strong  and  workmanlike. 
"  'Tis  fit,"  he  said,  "to  serve  a  King,"  and  smiled 
At  his  grim  jest;  then  went  he  on  his  way. 

Out  in  the  streets  the  crowd  was  surging  on 
Along  the  way  that  leads  to  Calvary's  hill. 
And  o'er  it  Fidus  saw  his  Cross ;  and  then, 
Sometimes,  a  thorn-crowned  head  with  waving  hair 
Blood-clotted  now,  and  stained  a  deeper  hue; 
And  Hate  seemed  in  the  air  vibrating  round. 
When  sudden,  like  a  bell  that  sweetly  rings 
Above  a  storm,  and  seems  a  messenger 
Of  Peace  and  Love,  there  woke  upon  his  soul 
From  out  the  sleeping  past,  some  prophet  words: 
"For  homage  goes  wkh  hate,  and  hate  shall  be 


THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING  125 

The  measure  of  the  homage  that  shall  swell 
In  pseans  great  around  the  royal  throne." 

The  surging  *crowd  hid  from  his  eyes  the  things 

He  did  not  care  to  see,  but  faint  he  heard 

The  hammer  strokes,  that  seemed  to  drive  the  nails 

Deep  in  his  heart.     Then  turned  he  to  a  man 

Who  silent  stood  beside  him,  and  he  said: 

"A  stranger  I,  from  Jaffa,  yesternight 

I  came.     This  man?    What  evil  hath  He  done?" 

"1  know  not  any  wrong  that  He  hath  done," 

Came  answer  fast.    "I  only  know  the  good 

That  He  had  wrought.     Behold  my  eyes  that  see ! 

Once  they  were  dark.     He  passed  me  by  one  day 

And  loud  I  cried:  'O  Son  of  David,  mercy  show 

That  I  may  see.'    He  touched  me  and  I  saw." 

Another  silent  man  near  Fidus  stood, 

To  him-  he  spoke,  "And  friend,  what  knowest  thou  ?" 

"I  know  that  now  I  live  though  I  was  dead ; 

For  I  had  gone  into  the  ending  tomb 

All  spiced  for  rest  and  bound  with  linen  bands; 

And  He  did  come,  and  He  did  call  me  forth. 

I  heard  His  voice  that  sounded  far  away, 

As  if  I  stood  within  a  valley  deep. 

And  some  one,  from  the  mountain  crest, 

Kept  calling  me.    Then  clearer  was  the  Voice; 

As  if  on  wings,  I  soared  aloft  to  Him, 

Who  ha'd  the  Power  to  bid  me  come  or  stay. 

Again  my  heart  did  beat  and  vital  blood 

Surged  through  my  wid'ning  veins.     I  lived  again." 

Then  Fidus  quick  recalled  a  wondrous  thing: 
He  sav/  the  Boy  in  Joseph's  little  shop. 


126  THE  THRONE  OF  THE  KING 

A  sick  lamb  refuged  in  His  tender  arms. 
He  gently  stroked  the  lamb  and  then  the  pain 
Was  gone  from  out  its  piteous  pleading  eyes. 
And,  lo,  the  man  felt  hot  tears  on  his  cheeks. 

The  Cross  was  raised,  and  faint  the  outline  stood 
'Twixt  Fidus  and  the  lurid,  murky  sky 
That  threatened  from  afar  a  terror  dark. 
Then  swift  it  came,  for  all  of  darkness  dread 
That  air  could  hold,  fell  down  upon  the  earth. 
The  stumbling  crowd  in  panic  slunk  away ; 
But  Fidus  groped  through  darkness  to  the  Cross. 

He  heard  a  moan  of  sorrow.    Well  he  knew 
The  voice  of  Mary,  she  of  Joseph's  house. 
His  heart  stood  still;  the  Vision  came  again: 
That  evening  fair — the  Boy — the  distant  hills — 
The  Shadow  of  the  Cross  upon  the  earth 
As  He  stood  silent  all  absorbed  in  prayer — 
The  promise  that  himself  should  build  a  throne. 
"Aye,"  so  the  Boy  had  said,  "for  it  shaM  be 
Raised  up  on  high  that  every  man  may  see, 
ISiot  Jews  alone,  but  even  ye  of  Rome; 
And  men  from  Britain  too,  on  farthest  shore 
Of  Rome's  great  Empire:  they  shall  see  and  know 
The  King  Who  reigns  upon  that  living  throne; 
And,  in  the  Islands  of  uncharted  seas 
The  King  shall  lifted  be  that  all  may  know; 
And  worlds  still  undiscovered  shall  bow  down 
To  do  Him  homage,  yet  shall  hate  His  name. 
For  homage  goes  with  hate,  and  hate  will  be 
The  measure  of  the  homage  that  shall  swell 
In  pseans  great  around  His  royaJ  throne." 


THE  CHILD'S  WISH  GRANTED  Igy 

A  lightning  flash!    The  rocks  asunder  rent, 
The  tombs  burst  open  and  the  dead  arose. 
One  moment  Fidus  saw  the  Crucified 
Ere  darkness  fell  again  around  the  Cross. 
But  in?  that  moment  a  new  vision  rose ; 
He  saw  the  hill  rise  high,  and  higher  still, 
Till  over  all  the  mountains  of  the  world 
It  towering  stood;  and  nations,  worshipping 
Gazed  on  a  mighty  throne  that  bore  a  King! 
Blood  red  the  jewels  in  His  crown  of  thorns. 
With  ermined  pain  that  wrapped  Him  all  about, 
Deep  in  His  hands  the  orb  and  sceptre  nails, 
Quite  gone  the  Shadow  of  the  primal  sin 
And,  on  His  brow,  fulfilled  the  ancient  pledge 
Of  Earth's  Redemption. 


THE  CHILD'S  WISH  GRANTED 

By  George  Parsons  Lathrop 

Do  you  remember,  my  sweet,  absent  son, 

How  in  the  soft  June  days  forever  done 

You  loved  the  heavens  so  warm  and  clear  and  high ; 

And,  when  I  lifted  you,  soft  came  your  cry, — 

"Put  me  'way  up, — 'way  up  in  the  blue  sky"? 

I  laughed  and  said  I  could  not, — set  you  down 
Your  gray  eyes  wondernfilled  beneath  that  crown 
Of  bright  hair  gladdening  me  as  your  raced  by, 
Another  Father  now,  more  strong  than  I, 
Has  borne  you  voiceless  to  your  dear  blue  sky. 


128  A  SONG  BEFORE  GRIEF 

CHARITY 

By  George  Parsons  Lathrop 

Unarmed  she  goeth,  yet  her  hands 

Strike  deeper  awe  than  steel-caparisoned  bands. 

No  fatal  hurt  of  foe  she  fears, — 

Veiled,  as  with  marl,  in  mist  of  gentle  tears. 

'Gainst  her  thou  canst  not  bar  the  door ; 
Like  air  she  enters ;  where  none  dared  before. 
Even  to  the  rich  she  can  forgive 
Their  regal  selfishness, — and  let  them  'live ! 


A  SONG  BEFORE  GRIEF 

By  Rose  Hawthorne  Lathrop 

Sorrow,  my  friend, 

When  shall  you  come  again? 

The  wind  is  slow,  and  the  bent  willows  send 

Their  silvery  motions  wearily  down  the  plain. 

The  bird  is  dead 

That  sang  this  morning  through  the  summer  rain ! 

Sorrow,  my  friend, 
I  owe  my  soul  to  you. 
And  if  my  life  with  any  glory  end 
Of  tenderness  for  others,  and  the  words  are  true, 
Said,  honoring,  when  I'm  dead, — 
Sorrow,  to  you,  the  mellow  praise,  the  funeral  wreatK, 
are  due. 


THE  CLOCK'S  SONG  129 

And  yet,  my  friend, 

When  love  and  joy  are  strong. 

Your  terrible  visage  from  my  sight  I  rend 

With  glances  to  blue  heaven.    Hovering  along. 

By  mine  your  shadow  led, 

"Away !"  I  shriek,  "nor  dare  to  work  my  new-sprung 


mercies  wrong 


Still,  you  are  near: 
Who  can  your  care  withstand? 
When  deep  eternity  shall  look  most  clear, 
Sending  bright  waves  to  kiss  the  trembling  land, 
My  joy  shall  disappear, — 

A  flaming  torch  thrown  to  the  golden  sea  iby  your  pale 
hand. 


THE  CLOCK'S  SONG 

By  Rose  Hawthorne  Lathrop 

Eileen  of  four, 

Eileen  of  smiles; 

Eileen  of  five, 

Eileen  of  tears ; 

Eileen  of  ten,  of  fifteen  years, 

Eileen  of  youth 

And  woman's  wiles; 

Eileen  of  twenty. 

In  love's  land, 

Eileen  all  tender 

In  her  bliss, 

Untouched  by   sorrow's  treacherous  kiss, 


130  IRELAND 

And  the  sly  weapons  in  life's  hand, — 

Eileen  aroused  to  share  all  fate, 

Eileen  a  wife, 

Pale,  beautiful, 

Eileen  most  grave  and  dutiful, 

Mourning  her  dreams  in  queenly  state. 

Eileen!     Eileen!  .  .  . 


IRELAND 

By  Edmund  Leamy  (Senior) 

I  LOVED  a  love — a  royal  love — 

In  the  golden  long  ago ; 
And  she  was  fair  as  fair  could  be. 
The  foam  upon  the  broken  sea, 
The  sheen  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star, 
The  sparkle  from  the  diamond  spar, 
Not  half  so  rare  and  radiant  are 

As  my  own  love — my  royal  love — 
In  the  golden  long  ago. 

And  she  had  stately  palace  halls — 

In  the  golden  long  ago; 
And  warriors,  men  of  stainless  swords, 
Were  seated  at  her  festive  boards, 
Fierce  champions  of  her  lightest  words. 
While  hymned  the  bard  the  chieftain's  praise. 
And  sang  their  deed  of  battle  days. 

To  cheer  my  love,  my  royal  love. 
In  the  golden   long  ago. 


IRELAND  131 

She  wore  a  stately  dia'dem — 

In  the  golden  long  ago; 
Wrought  by  a  cunning  craftsman's  hand, 
And  fashioned  from  a  battle  brand, 
Full  fit  for  the  queen  of  a  soldier  land; 
Her  sceptre  was  a  sabre  keen, 
Her  robe  a  robe  of  radiant  green, 

My  queenly  love,  my  royal  love, 
In  the  golden  long  ago. 

Alas  for  my  love,  my  royal  love. 

Of  the  golden  long  ago ! 
For  gone  are  all  her  warrior  bands. 
And  rusted  are  her  battle  brands, 
And  broken  her  sabre  bright  and  keen, 
And  torn  her  robe  of  radiant  green, 
A  slave  where  she  was  a  stainless  queen, 

My  own  love,  my  royal  love. 
Of  the  golden  long  ago. 

But  there  is  hope  for  my  royal  love 
Of  the  golden  long  ago ; 
Beyond  the  broad  and  shining  sea 
Gathers  a  stubborn  chivalry. 
That  yet  will  come  to  make  her  free, 
And  hedge  her  round  with  gleaming  spears, 
And  crown  her  queen  of  all  the  years, 
My  own  love,  my  royal  love. 
Of  the  golden  long  ago. 


132  MUSIC  MAGIC 

MUSIC  MAGIC 
By  Edmund  Leamy 

Perhaps  there  is  no  magic  in  this  dull  old  world  of  ours; 
Perhaps  there  are  no  Fairy  Tales  to  gladden  heart-brea'i 

hours; 
Perhaps  there  is  no  beauty,  and  perhaps  all  things  are 

wrong; 
But  still  there  is  the  wonder  of  a  little,  old-time  song! 

A  squeaking  and  battered  old  organ,   rattling  a  moss- 
covered  tune, 
Stood  in  the  street  of  the  city,  there,  in  the  heat  of  the 

noon; 
Banging  of  roses  and  sunshine,  thrilling  of   lands   far 

away, 
Whispering  songs  of  my  childhood, — sorrowful,  simple 

and  gay; 
I  was  a  child  for  a  moment,  filled  with  a  child's  petty 

fears. 
Dreaming,  and  dreaming,  and  dreaming,  never  a  thought 

of  the  tears. 
Then  as  the  music  softenefd,  singing  of  love  and  of  life, 
Brought  it  back  thought  of  the  old  days,  far  from  the 

toil  and  the  strife. 
Glimmer  of  gold  in  the  star-light,  shimmer  of  silk  by  the 

sea; 
Words  that  were  whispered,   half-spoken,  dreams  that 

were  never  to  be. 

Sweet  intermingled  with  sadness,  what  is  as  dear  as  the 

past? 
Is  there  a  day  in  the  future  that  is  as  fair  as  the  last? 


GETHSEMANE  133 

Music,  oh,  music  the  master,  there  in  the  heat  of  the  noon, 

A  squeaking  and  battered  old  organ,  ratthng  a  moss- 
covered  tune. 

Carried  me  back  in-  my  dreaming,  far,  to  the  long,  long 
ago; 

Feeling,  'way  down  in  my  heart-chords,  hope  I  thought 
never  could  glow ; 

Brought  to  me,  who  was  a  failure,  beaten  and  crossed  in 
the  fight, 

Help  in  the  hour  of  the  darkness — pointed  the  way  to  the 
light. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  magic  in  this  dull,  old  zvorld  of  ours; 
Perhaps  there  are  no  Fairy  Tales  to  gladden  heart-break 

hours; 
Perhaps  there  is  no  beauty  and  perhaps  all  things  a/re 

wrong; 
But  still  there  is  the  zvonder  of  a  little,  old-time  song! 

GETHSEMANE 
By  Edmund  Leamy 

Breathes  there  a  man  who  claimeth  not 

One  lonely  spot. 

His  own  Gethsemane, 
Whither  with  his  inmost  pain 
He  fain 

Would  weary  plod, 
Find  the  surcease  that  is  known 
In  wind  a-moan 

And  sobbing  sea. 
Cry  his  sorrow  hid  of  men. 
And  then — 

Touch  hands  with  God. 


134  MY  LIPS  WOULD  SING  — 

MY  LIPS  WOULD  SING 

By  Edmund  Leamy 

My  lips  would  sing  a  song  for  you,  a  soulful  little  song 
for  you, 

A  plaintive  little  song  for  you,  upon  a  summer's  day ; 
But  for  the  very  life  of  me,  the  merry,  merry  life  of  me, 

The  laughter-loving  life  of  me,  I  cannot  but  be  gay. 

For  oh,  the  sun  is  shining.  Dear,  and  who  could  be  re- 
pining. Dear, 
And  who  would  be  unhappy.  Dear,  when  all  the  world 
is  young? 
So  I  will  hum  a  melody,  a  mirthful  little  melody, 
A  joyous  little  melody  that  never  yet  was  sung. 

And  you  shall  hear  of  Fairyland,  of  Kings  and  Queens 
of  Fairyland, 
Of  men  and  maids  of  Fairyland,  and  Love  shall  be  the 
theme, 
And  straight  before  your  brimming  eyes,  a  golden  glint 
of  Paradise 
Shall  steal,  My  Dear,  to  still  your  sighs,  and  give  you 
back  your  dream. 

And  you  will  taste  of  happiness,  a  tiny  bit  of  happiness, 
A  wistful  bit  of  happiness,  upon  a  summer's  day; 

And  just  a  little  smile   from  you,   a  sunny  little  smile 
from  you, 
A  trembly  little  smile  from  you  shall  be  a  poet's  pay ! 


VISIONS  135 

MY  SHIP 

By  Edmund  Leamy 

My  ship  is  an  old  ship  and  her  sails  are  grey  and  torn, 
And  in  the  -dim  and  misty  night  she  seems  a  thing  forlorn ; 
Her  battered  sides  are  beetle  black,  her  decks-  are  scarred 

and  old, 
And  heavy  rise  the  musty  scents  from  out  her  crumbling 

hold. 

The  young  ships  in  the  tide-way  with  a  sneering  smile 
sail  by. 

And  fair  they  flash  their  white  sails  against  a  sun- 
drenched sky, 

And  fleet  they  run  before  the  clouds  that  usher  in  a  blow, 

But  could  a  storm  coerce  my  ship  whene'er  she  wished 
to  go! 

My  ship  is  an  old  ship  and  her  sails  are  torn  and  grey, 
And  she's  not  white  and  beautiful,  nor  fragile  such  as 

they, 
But  she  has  sailed  o'er  every  sea  to  every  land  a-gleam, 
And  on  her  decks  make  merry  now  the  wraiths  of  youth- 
ful drea^m ! 


VISIONS 

By  Edmund  Leamy 

1  never  watch  the  sun  set  a-down  the  Western  skies 
But  that  zmthin  it's  wonderness  I  see  my  mother's  eyes; 
I  never  hear  the  West  wind  sob  softly  in  the  trees 


136  VISIONS 

But  that  there  comes  her  broken  call  far  o'er  the  distant 

seas; 
And  never  shine  the  dim  stars  hut  that  my  heart  zvould  go 
Away  and  back  to  olden  lands  and  dreams  of  long  ago. 

A  rover  of  the  wide  world,  when  yet  my  heart  was  young 
The  sea  came  whispering  to  me  in  well-beloved  tongue, 
And  oh !  the  promises  she  held  of  golden  lands  a-gleam 
That  clung  about  my  iboy-heart  and  filled  mine  eyes  with 

dream, 
And  Wanderlust  came  luring  me  till  'neath  the  stars  I 

swore 
That  I  would  be  a  wanderer  for  ever,  ever  more. 

A-rover  of  the  wide  world,  I've  seen  the  Northern  hghts 
A-flashing    countless   colours    in    the   knife-cold    wintry 

nights ; 
I've   watched   the   Southern    Cross   ablaze   o'er   smiling, 

sunny  lands. 
And   seen   the   lazy    sea    caress   palm-sheltered,    silvery 

sands ; 
Still  wild  unrest  is  scouring  me,  the  Wanderlust  of  yore. 
And  I  must  be  a  wanderer  for  ever,  ever  more. 

And  yet,  I  see  the  sun  set  a-down  the  Western  skies 
And  glimpse  within  the  wonderness  my  mother's  pleading 

eyes; 
And  yet  I  hear  the  West  zvind  sob  softly  in  the  trees, 
That  vainly  cloaks  her  broken  call  far  o'er  the  distant 

seas; 
And  still  when  shine  the  dim  stars  my  wander  heart 

would  go 
Away  and  back  to  her  side,  and  dreams  of  long  ago. 


IRELAND,    MOTHER    OF    PRIESTS  137 

IRELAND,  MOTHER  OF  PRIESTS 

By  Shane  Leslie 

The  fishwife  sits  by  the  side 

Of  her  childing  bed, 

Her  fire  is  deserted  and  sad, 

Her  beads  are  long  said; 

Her  tears  ebb  and  flow  with  the  sea. 

Her  grief  on  the  years, 

But  little  she  looks  to  the  tide, 

And  little  she  hears: 

For  dhildren  in  springtime  play  round 

Her  sorrowing  heart, 

To  win  them  their  feeding  she  loves 

To  hunger  apart; 

Her  children  in  summer  she  counts 

Awhile  for  her  own ; 

But  winter  is  ever  the  same. 

The  loved  ones  are  flown. 

Far  over  the  sea  they  are  gone. 

Far  out  of  her  ken 

They  travel  the  furthest  of  seas 

As  fishers  of  men. 

Yet  never  a  word  to  her  sons 

To  keep  them  at  home, 

And  never  a  motherly  cry 

Goes  over  the  foam ; 

She  sits  with  her  head  in  her  hands, 

Her  eyes  on  the  flame. 

And  thinks  of  the  others  that  played, 

Yet  left  her  the  same, 


j^38  THE  HUNTERS 

With  vesture  she  wove  on  the  loom 

Four-coloured  to  be, 

And  lanterns  she  trimmed  with  l:cr  hiir 

To  light  them  to  sea. 

Oh,  far  have  the  living  ones  gone, 

And  further  the  dead, 

For  spirits  come  never  to  watch 

The  fisherwife's  bed; 

And  sonless  she  sits  at  the  hearth, 

And  peers  in  the  flame, 

She  knows  that  their  fishing  must  come 

As  ever  it  came — 

A  fishing  that  never  set  home, 

But  seaways  it  led. 

For  God  who  has  taken  her  sons 

Has  buried  her  dead. 


THE  HUNTERS 

By  Ruth  Temple  Lindsay 

"The  Devil,  as  a  roaring  lion,  goeth  about  seeking  whom 
he  may  devour." 

The  Lion,  he  prowleth  far  and  near. 

Nor  swerves  for  pain  or  rue ; 
He  heedeth  nought  of  sloth  nor  fear. 

He  prowleth — prowleth  through 
The  silent  glade  and  the  weary  street, 

In  the  empty  dark  and  the  full  noon  heat; 
And  a  little  Lamb  with  aching  feet — 

He  prowleth  too. 


THE  HUNTERS  139 

The  Lion  croucheth  alert,  apart — 

With  patience  doth  he  woo ; 
He  waiteth  long  by  this  shuttered  heart, 

And  the  Lamb — He  waiteth  too. 
Up  the  lurid  passes  of  dreams  that  kill, 

Through  the  twisting  maze  of  the  great  Untrue, 
The  Lion  followeth  the  fainting  will — 

And  the  Lamb — He  followeth  too. 

From  the  tickets  dim  of  the  hidden  way 

Where  the  debts  of  Hell  accrue, 
The  Lion  leapeth  upon  his  prey: 

But  the  Lamb — He  leapeth  too. 
Ah !  loose  the  leash  of  the  sins  that  damn, 

Mark  Devil  and  God  as  goals. 
In  the  panting  love  of  a  famished  Lamb, 

Gone  mad  with  the  need  of  souls. 

The  Lion,  he  strayeth  near  and  far ; 

What  heights  hath  he  left  untrod? 
He  crawleth  nigh  to  the  purest  star, 

On  the  trail  of  the  saints  of  God. 
And  throughout  the  darkness  of  things  unclean. 

In  the  depths  where  the  sin-ghouls  brood, 
There  prowleth  ever  with  yearning  mien — 

A  lamb  as  white  as  Blood! 


140  ^N  CHERRY  LANE 

IN  CHERRY  LANE 

By  Rev.  William  Livingston 

In  Cherry  Lane  the  blossoms  hlow 
In  wreaths  of  white  around  the  trees, 

And  spread  their  petals  wide,  as  though 
They  longed  for  nectar-seeking  bees. 

O'erhead,  the  arching  boughs  that  spring 
From  pillar  trunks  look  down  and  smile 

On  lowly  currant  shrubs  that  cling 
Around  their  feet  along  the  aisle. 

In  Cherry  Lane  the  sunbeams  steal 

Through  many  a  leaf  and  branch  above, 

And  tender  shoots  come  forth  to  feel 
The  touches  jof  a  wondrous  love. 

And  life  grows  warmer  with  the  hours, 
Unmoved,  unchilled  by  human  pang. 

Till  from  the  stems  now  robed  in  flowers 
The  great  red  drops  in  dusters  hang. 

Ah,  Mother  mine!  white  blossoms  came 
And  filled  my  soul  with  thoughts  of  thee, 

Who  art  to  those  that  love  thy  name 
What  honeyed  buds  are  to  the  bee. 

Thou  art  the  floweret  white  and  fair, 
A  virgin  from  thy  stainless  birth, 

The  fruitful  stem  designed  to  bear 
A  Saviour  to  our  sinful  earth. 


SURRENDER  141 

And  when  the  cherries,  ripe  and  red, 
Come  forth  upon  the  breast  of  June, 

They'll  tell  me  of  a  heart  that  bled, 
By  men  forgotten  all  too  soon. 

Ah,  precious  drops!  through  future  days 
Preserve  my  soul  from  spot  or  stain. 

With  tender  thoughts  of  love  and  praise 
That  once  were  mine  in  Cherry  Lane. 


SURRENDER 
By  S.  M,  M. 

If  thou  art  merely  conscious  clay — ah,  well. 
Tire  not  such  stuff  with  futile,  tread-mill  climb 
Which  lifts  to  leave  thee  level  with  the  slime  ; 

Nor  think  that  death  can  break  thy  earthMborn  spell  ; 

Clay  hath  no  heel  Achillean,  vulnerable. 
Be  animate  till  some  deliberate  time 
Shall  choke  and  crunch  thee  to  potential  grime, 

For  thou  art  fit  for  neither  heaven  nor  hell. 

But  He  Who  made  thee  cousin  to  the  clod 
First  plunged  thee  in  the  Spirit  Which  is  He, 

Whence  thou  hast  risen,  divinely  armed  and  shod 
To  scale  the  ramparts  of  eternity. 

Already  stricken  with  the  shafts  of  God, 
Thou  fallest  prisoner  to  the  Deity. 


142  HYMN   FOR   PENTECOST 

HYMN  FOR  PENTECOST 

By  James  Clarence  Mangan 

Pure  Spirit  of  the  always- faithful  God, 

Kindler  of  Heaven's  true  light  within  the  soul! 

From  the  lorn  land  our  sainted  fathers  trod, 

Ascends  to  Thee  our  cry  of  hope  and  dole. 

Thee,  Thee  we  praise; 

To  Thee  we  raise 

Our  choral  hymn  in  these  awakening  days: 

O  send  us  down  anew  that  fire 

Which  of  old  lived  in  David's  and  Isaiah's  lyre. 

Centuries  had  rolled,  and  earth  lay  tombed  in  sleep, 
The  nightmare-sleep  of  nations  beneath  kings ; 
And  far  abroad  o'er  liberty's  great  deep 
Death's  angel  waved  his  black  and  stilling  wings. 
Then  struck  Thine  hour ! 
Thou,  in  Thy  power, 

But  breathedst,  and  the  free  stood  up,  a  tower; 
And  tyranny's  thrones  and  strongholds  fell. 
And  men  made  jubilee  for  an  abolished  hell. 

And  she,  our  mother-home,  the  famed,  the  fair. 

The  golden  house  of  light  and  intellect, 

Must  she  still  groan  in  her  intense  despair? 

Shall  she  lie  prone  while  Europe  stands  erect? 

For  fend  this,  Thou 

To  whom  we  vow 

Souls  even  our  giant  wrongs  shall  never  bow: 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  our  green  flag  furled, 

Nor  bear  that  we  abide  the  byword  of  the  world. 


DARK  ROSALEEN  143 

Like  the  last  lamp  that  burned  in  Tullia's  tomb 

Through  ages,  vainly,  with  unwaning  ray  ; 

Our  star  of  hope  lights  but  a  path  of  gloom 

Whose  false  track  leads  us  round  and  round  alway. 

But  Thou  canst  open 

A  gate   from  hope 

To  victory!    Thou  canst  nerve  our  arms  to  cope 

With  looming  storm  and  danger  still, 

And  lend  a  thunder-voice  to  the  land's  lightning  will. 

Descend,  then.  Spirit  of  the  Eternal  King! 

To  Thee,  to  Him,  to  His  avenging  Son, 

The  Triune  of  God,  in  boundless  trust  we  cling; 

His  help  once  ours,  our  nationhood  is  won. 

We  watch  the  time 

Till  that  sublime 

Event  shall  thrill  the  free  of  every  clime. 

Speed,  mighty  Spirit!  speed  its  march, 

And  thus  complete  for  earth  mankind's  triumphal  arch. 


DARK  ROSALEEN 
By  James  Clarence  Mangan 

O  MY  dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 
There's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope 

Upon  the  ocean  green. 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope. 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen! 


144  DARK  ROSALEEN 

Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 
My  dark  Rosaleen! 

Over  hills  and  through  dales 

Have  I  roamed  for  your  sake; 
All  yesterday  I  sailed  the  sails 

On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne,  at  its  highest  flood, 

I  dashed  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen! 
Oh !  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood. 
Red  lightning  through  my  blood. 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro  do  I  move. 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love! 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints. 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen! 
To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe. 
Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon. 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so. 


DARK  ROSALEEN  145 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen; 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen! 
'Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal: 
Your  holy,  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me   with  steel. 
At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 
You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 
You'll  think  of  me  through  daylight's  hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
Oh,  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew. 


146  WHAT  IS  WHITE? 

A  second  life,  a  soul  anew. 
My  dark  Rosaleen! 

Oh!  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood. 
And  gun-peal  and  slogan-cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene. 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 
The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh. 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 


WHAT  IS  WHITE? 
By  Thomas  MacDonagh 

What  is  white? 

The  soul  of  the  sage,  faith-lit, 
The  trust  of  Age, 

The  infant's  untaught  wit. 
What  more  white? 

The  face  of  Truth  made  known, 
The  Voice  of  Youth 

Singing  before  her  throne. 


WISHES  FOR  MY  SON  147 

WISHES  FOR  MY  SON 
Born  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1912 

By  Thomas  MacDonagh 

Now,  my  son,  is  life  for  you — 
And  I  wish  you  joy  of  it, — 
Joy  of  power  in  all  you  do. 
Deeper  passion,  better  wit 
Than  I  had  who  had  enough, 
Quicker  life  and  length  thereof. 
More  of  every  gift  but  love. 

Love  I  have  beyond  all  men, 
Love  that  now  you  share  with  me — 
What  have  I  to  wish  you  then 
But  that  you  be  good  and  free, 
And  that  God  to  you  may  give 
Grace  in  stronger  days  to  live? 

For  I  wish  you  more  than  I 
Ever  knew  of  glorious  deed. 
Though  no  rapture  passed  me  by 
That  an  eager  heart  could  heed, 
Though  I  followed  heights  and  sought 
Things  the  sequel  never  brought. 

Wild  and  perilous  holy  things 
Flaming  with  a  martyr's  blood, 
And  the  joy  that  laughs  and  sings 
Where  a  foe  must  be  withstood, 
Joy  of  headlong  happy  chance 
Leading  on  the  battle  dance. 


148  RESIGNATION 

But  I  found  no  enemy, 
No  man  in  a  world  of  wrong, 
That  Christ's  word  of   Charity 
Did  not  render  clean  and  strong— 
Who  was  I  to  judge  my  kind, 
Blindest  groper  of  the  blind? 

God  to  you  may  give  the  sight 
And  the  clear  undoubting  strength 
Wars  to  knit  for  single  right, 
Freedom's  war  to  knit  at  length. 
And  to  win,  through  wrath  and  strife. 
To  the  sequel  of  my  life. 

But  for  you,  so  small  and  young. 

Born  on  Saint  Cecilia's  Day, 

I  in  more  harmonious  song 

Now  for  nearer  joys  should  pray — 

Simple  joys:  the  natural  growth 

Of  your  childhood  and  your  youth. 

Courage,  innocence  and  truth : 

These  for  you,  so  small  and  young, 
In  your  hand  and  heart  and  tongue. 


RESIGNATION 

By  Seumas  MacManus 

Be  still,  sad  soul,  be  still. 
Bend  you  to  Heaven's  high  will. 
When  the  toilsome  race  is  run, 
And  the  summit  strove  for  won- 
When  secrets  are  unsealed, 


RESIGNATION  149 

All  hidden  things  revealed, 
All  mysteries  made  known, 
The  good  we  doubted  shown, 
Vexed  questionings  at  rest, 
I'll  say,  "Well,  God  knew  best." 

Me  thought  you  went  full  soon, 
In  the  rapture  of  the  noon, 
In  the  glory  of  the  sun. 
Your  noble  work  begun — 
In  your  grasp  the  magic  wand 
That  would  raise  a  stricken  land — 
A  while  you  fain  would  stay ; 
But  the  call  brooked  no  delay: 
[You  sighed,  and  bowed  your  head, 
And  they  put  you  with  the  dead. 

Our  God  is  kind,  and  He 

Will  blunt  the  shaft  to  me ; 

Will  stay  the  dripping  woe 

Ere  the  chalice  overflow ; 

May  let  me  end  the  race 

With  the  high  sun  on  my  face, 

And  the  hot  blood  bounding  free. 

Through  the  beating  veins  of  me. 

At  most  but  some  sad  hours 

And  He'll  call  me  when  Night  lowers. 

Oh,  at  the  Trysting  Gate, 
'With  radiant  face  you'll  wait! 
With  arms  in  love  outspread 
[To  take  a  weary  head, 
^d  clasp  it  to  your  breast 


150  IN  DARK  HOUR 

Where  always  it  found  rest. 
You'll  speak  no  word  for  joy, 
iBut,  crooning  o'er  your  boy, 
Draw  him  into  the  Light, 
Where  nevermore  comes  Night. 

IN  DARK  HOUR 
By  Seumas  MacManus 

I  TURN  my  steps  where  the  Lonely  Road 

Winds  far  as  the  eye  can  see. 
And  I  bend  my  back  for  the  burden  sore 

That  God  has  reached  down  to  me. 

I  have  said  farewell  to  the  sun-kissed  plains. 

To  joy  I  gave  good-bye ; 
Now  the  bleak  wide  wastes  of  the  world  are  mine, 

And  the  winds  that  wail  in  the  sky. 

No  bright  flower  blooms,  no  sweet  bird  calls. 

Nor  hermit  ever  abode, 
Not  a  green  thing  lifts  one  lowly  leaf, 

O  God,  on  the  Lonely  Road! 

The  thick  dank  mists  come  stealing  down. 

And  press  me  on  every  side. 
With  never  a  voice  to  cheer  me  on, 

And  never  a  hand  to  guide. 

I  shall  cry  in  my  need  for  a  Voice  and  Hand, 

And  the  solace  of  love- wet  eyes — 
And  an  icy  clutch  will  close  on  my  heart, 

When  Echo,  the  mocker,  replies. 


A  SONG  OF  COLOURS  151 

I  know  my  good  soul  will  fail  me  not, 
When  Forms  from  the  Dark  round  me  creep, 

And  whisper  'twere  sweet  to  journey  no  more, 
But  lay  down  the  burden  and  sleep. 

{Look  onivard  and  up,  O  Heart  of  my  Heart, 

Where  the  road  strikes  the  skies  afar! 
To  cheer  you,  and  guide,  thro'  your  darkest  hour, 

Behold  yon  beckoning  Star!) 

I  set  my  face  to  the  grey  wild  wastes, 

I  bend  my  back  to  the  load — 
Dear  God  be  kind  with  the  heart-sick  child 

Who  steps  on  the  Lonely  Road. 


A  SONG  OF  COLOURS 
By  Theodore  Maynard 

Gold  for  the  crown  of  Mary, 

Blue  for  the  sea  and  sky, 
Green  for  the  woods  and  the  meadows 

Where  small  white  daisies  lie, 
And  red  for  the  colour  of  Christ's  blood 

When  He  came  to  the  cross  to  die. 

These  things  the  high  God  gave  us 
And  left  in  the  world  He  made — 

Gold  for  the  hilt's  enrichment, 

And  blue  for  the  sword's  good  blade, 

And  red  for  the  roses  a  youth  may  set 
On  the  white  brows  of  a  maid. 


152  THE  WORLD'S  MISER 

Green  for  the  cool,  sweet  gardens 

Which  stretch  about  the  house, 
And  the  delicate  new  frondage 

The  winds  of  spring  arouse. 
And  red  for  the  wine  which  a  man  may  drink 

With  his  fellows  in  carouse. 

Blue  and  green  for  the  comfort 

Of  tired  hearts  and  eyes. 
And  red  for  that  sudden  hour  which  comes 

With  danger  and  great  surprise, 
And  white  for  the  honour  of  God's  throne 

When  the  dead  shall  all  arise. 

Gold  for  the  cope  and  chalice. 

For  kingly  pomp  and  pride. 
And  red  for  the  feathers  men  wear  in  their  caps 

When  they  win  a  war  or  a  bride, 
And  red  for  the  robe  which  they  dressed  God  in 

On  the  bitter  day  He  died. 


THE  WORLD'S  MISER 
By  Theodore  Maynard 

I 

A  MISER  with  an  eager  face 

Sees  that  each  roseleaf  is  in  place. 

He  keeps  beneath  strong  bolts  and  bars 
The  piercing  beauty  of  the  stars. 

The  colours  of  the  dying  day 

He  hoards  as  treasure — well  He  may! — 


CECIDIT,  CECIDJT,  BABYLON  MAGNA  153 

And  saves  with  care  (lest  they  be  lost) 
The  dainty  diagrams  of  frost. 

He  counts  the  hairs  of  every  head, 
And  grieves  to  see  a  sparrow  dead. 

II 

Among  the  yellow  primroses 
He  holds  His  Summer  palaces, 

And  sets  the  grass  about  them  all 

To  guard  them  as  His  spearmen  small. 

He  fixes  on  each  wayside  stone 
A  mark  to  show  it  as  His  own. 

And  knows  when  raindrops  fall  through  air 
Whether  each  single  one  be  there, 

That  gathered  into  ponds  and  brooks. 
They  may  become  His  picture  books, 

To  show  in  every  spot  and  place 
The  living  glory  of  His  face. 


CECIDIT,  CECIDIT  BABYLON  MAGNA! 
By  Theodore  Maynard 

The  aimless  business  of  your  feet, 
Your  swinging  wheels  and  piston  rods, 

The  smoke  of  every  sullen  street 

Have  passed  away  with  all  your  Gods, 


154  A   SONG   OP  LAUGHTER 

For  in  a  meadow  far  from  these 
A  hodman  treads  across  the  loam, 

Bearing  his  solid  sanctities 

To  that  strange  altar  called  his  home. 

I  watch  the  tall,  sagacious  trees 
Turn  as  the  monks  do,  every  one; 

The  saplings,  ardent  novices. 

Turning  with  them  towards  the  sun, 

That  Monstrance  held  in  God's  strong  hands, 
Burnished  in  amber  and  in  red; 

God,  His  Own  priest,  in  blessing  stands; 
The  earth,  adoring,  bows  her  head. 

The  idols  of  your  market  place, 

Your  high  debates,  where  are  they  now? 

Your  lawyers'  clamour  fades  apace — 
A  bird  is  singing  on  the  bough ! 

Three  fragile,  sacramental  things 

Endure,  though  all  your  pomps  shall  pass- 
A  butterfly's  immortal  wings, 

A  daisy  and  a  blade  of  grass. 


A  SONG  OF  LAUGHTER 
*  By  Theodore  Maynard 

The  stars  with  their  laughter  are  shaken; 

The  long  waves  laugh  at  sea ; 
And  the  little  Imp  of  Laughter 

Laughs  in  the  soul  of  me. 


APOCALYPSE  155 

I  know  the  guffaw  of  a  tempest, 

The  mirth  of  a  blossom  and  bud — 
But  I  laugh  when  I  think  of  how  Cuchulain  laughed 

At  the  crows  with  their  bills  in  his  blood. 

The  mother  laughs  low  at  her  baby, 

The  bridegroom  with  joy  in  his  bride — 
And  I  think  that  Christ  laughed  when  they  Took  Him 
with  staves 

On  the  night  before  He  died. 


APOCALYPSE 

"And  I  saw  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth:  for  the  first  heaven 
and  the  first  earth  are  passed  away." — Apoc.  xxi.  I. 

By  Theodore  Maynard 

Shall  summer  wood  where  we  have  laughed  our  fill; 

Shall  all  your  grass  so  good  to  walk  upon ; 
Each  field  that  we  have  loved,  each  little  hill. 

Be  burnt  like  paper — as  hath  said  Saint  John? 

Then  not  alone  they  die !     For  God  hath  told 
How  all  His  plains  of  mingled  fire  and  glass, 

His  walls  of  hyacinth,  His  streets  of  gold. 
His  aureoles  of  jewelled  light  shall  pass, 

That  He  may  make  us  nobler  things  that  these, 

And  in  her  royal  robes  of  blazing  red 
Adorn  His  bride.    Yea,  with  what  mysteries 

And  might  and  mirth  shall  she  be  diamonded. 


156  ^7^.  BRIGID 

And  what  new  secrets  shall  our  God  disclose ; 

Or  set  what  suns  of  burnished  brass  to  flare; 
Or  what  empurpled  bloom  to  oust  the  rose; 

Or  what  strange  grass  to  glow  like  angels'  hair ! 

What  pinnacles  of  silvery  tracery, 

What  dizzy,  rampired  towers  shall  God  devise 
Of  topaz,  beryl  and  chalcedony 

To  make  Heaven  pleasant  to  His  children's  eyes  !f 

And  in  what  cataclysms  of  flame  and  foam 
Shall  the  first  Heaven  sink — as  red  as  sin — 

When  God  hath  cast  aside  His  ancient  home 
As  far  too  mean  to  house  His  children  in. 


ST.  BRIGID 
By  Denis  A.  McCarthy 

Brigid,  the   daughter  of   Dufify,   she  wasn't  like   other 

young  things, 
Dreaming  of  lads  for  her  lovers,  and  twirling  her  brace- 
lets and  rings; 
Combing  and  coiling  and  curling  her  hair  that  was  black 

as  the  sloes, 
Painting  her  lips  and  her  cheeks  that  were  ruddy  and 

fresh  as  the  rose. 
Ah,  'twasn't  Brigid  would  waste   all  her  days  in  such 

follies  as  these — 
Christ  was  the  Lover  she  worshipped  for  hour  after  hour 

on  her  knees ; 
Christ  and  His  Church  and  His  poor, — and  'twas  many 

a  mile  that  she  trod 


ST.  BRIGID  157 

Serving  the  loathsomest  lepers  that  ever  were  stricken 
by  God. 

Brigid,  the  daughter  of  Duffy,  she  sold  all  her  Jewels  and 

gems, 
Sold   all  her  finely-spun  robes  that  were  braided  with 

gold  to  the  hems; 
Kept  to  her  back  but  one  garment,  one  dress  that  was 

faded  and  old. 
Gave  all  her  goods  to  the  poor  who  were  famished  with 

hunger  and  cold. 
Ah,  'twasn't  Brigid  would  fling  at  the  poor  the  hard  word 

like  a  stone — 
Christ  the  Redeemer  she  saw  in  each  wretch  that  was 

ragged  and  lone; 
Every  wandering  beggar  who  asked  for  a  bite  or  a  bed 
Knocked  at  her  heart  like  the  Man  who  had  nowhere  to 

shelter  His  head. 

Brigid,  the  daughter  of  Duffy,  she  angered  her  father 

at  last. 
**Where  are  your  dresses,  my  daughter  ?    Crom  Cruach ! 

You  wear  them  out  fast! 
Where  are  the  chains  that  I  bought  you  all  wrought  in 

red  gold  from  the  mine? 
Where  the  bright  brooches  of  silver  that  once  on  your 

bosom  would  shine?" 
Ah,  but  'twas  he  was  the  man  that  was  proud  of  his 

name  and  his  race, 
Proud  of  their  prowess  in  battle  and  proud  of  their  deeds 

in  the  chase ! 
Knew  not  the  Christ,  the  pale  God  Whom  the  priests 

from  afar  had  brought  in, 


158  ST.  BRIGID 

Held  to  the  old  Gaelic  gods  that  were  known  to  Cuchullin 
and  Finn. 

Brigid,  the  daughter  of  Duffy,  made  answer,  "O  father," 

said  she, 
"What  is  the  richest  of  raiment,  and  what  are  bright 

jewels  to  me? 
Lepers  of  Christ  must  I  care  for,  the  hungry  of  Christ 

must  I  feed; 
How  can  I  walk  in  rich  robes  when  His  people  and  mine 

are  in  need  ?" 
Ah,    but    'twas   she    didn't    fear    for   herself    when   he 

blustered  and  swore. 
Meekly  she  bowed  when  he  ordered  his  chariot  brought 

to  the  door; 
Meekly  obeyed  when  he  bade  her  get  in  at  the  point  of 

his  sword, 
Knowing  whatever  her  fate  she'd  be  safe  with  her  Lover 

and  Lord. 

Brigid,  the  daughter  of  Dufify,  was  brought  to  the  court 

of  the  King, 
(Monarch  of  Leinster,  MacEnda,  whose  praises  the  poets 

would  sing). 
"Hither,   O  monarch,"  said  Duffy,  "I've  come  with  a 

maiden  to  sell; 
Buy  her  and  bind  her  to  bondage — she's  needing  ^such 

discipline  well !" 
Ah,  but  'twas  wise  was  the  King.    From  the  maid  to  the 

chieftain  he  turned; 
Mildness  he  saw  in  her  face,  in  the  other  'twas  anger 

that  burned;  ; 

"This  is  no  bondmaid,  I'll  swear  It,  O  chief,  but  a  girl 

of  your  own. 


ST.  B RIGID  159 

Why  sells  the  father  the  flesh  of  his  flesh  and  the  bone 
of  his  bone?" 


Brigid,  the  daughter  of  Duffy,  was  mute  while  her  father 

replied — 
"Monarch,  this  maid   has  no   place   as  the   child  of  a 

chieftain  of  pride. 
Beggars  and  wretches  whose  wounds  would  the  soul  of 

a  soldier  affright, 
Sure,  'tis  on  these   she  is  wasting  my  substance   from 

morning  till  night!" 
Ah,  but  'twas  bitter  was  Duffy ;  he  spoke  like  a  man  that 

was  vext. 
Musing,  the  monarch  was  silent;  he  pondered  the  ques- 
tion perplexed. 
"Maiden,"  said  he,  "if  'tis  true,  as  I've  just  from  your 

father  heard  tell, 
Might  it  not  be,  as  my  bondmaid,  you'd  waste  all  my 

substance  as  well?" 

Brigid,  the  daughter  of  Duffy,  made  answer.     "O  mon- 
arch," she  said, 
"Had   I  the  wealth  from  your  coffers,  and  had  I  the 

crown  from  your  head- 
Yea,  if  the  plentiful  yield  of  the  broad  breasts  of  Erin 

were  mine. 
All  would  I  give  to  the  people  of  Christ  who  in  poverty 

pine." 
Ah,  but  'twas  then  that  the  King  felt  the  heart  in  his 

bosom  upleap, 
"I  am  not  worthy,"  he  cried,  "such  a  maiden  in  bondage 
to  keep! 


160  ROSA  MYSTICA 

Here's   a  king's   sword   for   her   ransom,  and  here's   a 

king's  word  to  decree 
Never  to  other  than  Christ  and  His  poor  let  her  servitude 

be!" 


ROSA  MYSTICA 

By  Denis  A.  McCarthy 

O  Mystic  Rose,  in  God's  fair  garden  growing, 
O  Mystic  Rose,  in  Heaven's  high  courtyard  blowing- 
Make  sweet,  make  sweet  the  pathway  I  am  going, 

O  Mystic  Rose! 
The  darkling,  deathward  way  that  I  am  going, 

O  Mystic  Rose! 

O  Rose,  more  white  than  snow-wreath  in  December!' 
O  Rose,  more  red  than  sunset's  dying  ember, 
My  sins  forget,  my  penitence  remember, 

O  Mystic  Rose! 
Though  all  should  fail,  I  pray  that  thou  remember, 

O  Mystic  Rose! 

O  Mystic  Rose,  the  moments  fly  with  fleetness ; 
To  judgment  I,  with  all  my  incompleteness — 
But  thou,  make  intercession  by  thy  sweetness, 

O  Mystic  Rose! 
Be  near  to  soothe  and  save  me  by  the  sweetness, 

Q  Mystic  Rose! 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  DAILY  BREAD  161 

THE  POOR  MAN'S  DAILY  BREAD 
By  Denis  A.  McCarthy 

Not  only  there  where  jewelled  vestments  blaze, 
And  /princely  prelates  bow  before  Thy  shrine, 

Where  myriads  line  the  swept  and  garnished  ways 
Through  which  is  borne  Thy  Majesty  Divine — 

O  Jesus  of  the  ever  loving  heart. 
Not  only  there  Thou  art ! 

But  where  the  lowliest  church  its  cross  uplifts 

Above  the  city's  sordidness  and  sin ; 
Where  all  unheeded  human  wreckage  drifts 

And  drowns  amid  the  foulness  and  the  din — 
There,  too,  anear  the  very  gates  of  hell, 
O  Saviour,  dost  Thou  dwell ! 

Oh,  meet  it  is  that  round  Thy  altar  thrones. 
Thy  highest  priests  should  ministering  throng 

With  silken  robe,  with  gold  and  precious  stones, 
With  solemn  chant  and  loud  triumphant  song : 

What  beauty  that  the  world  could  give  would  be 

Too  beautiful  for  Thee? 

And  yet  to  those  that  work  with  grimy  hands 
And  sweaty  brows  in  ditches  and  in  drains, 

Thou  comest  with  a  love  that  understands 
Their  labor  ill-requited,  and  their  pains. 

Who  knows  so  well  as  Thou  what  they  endure, 
O  Father  of  the  poor? 


1G2  TO  ASK  OUR  LADY'S  PATRONAGE 

And  so,  deep-hid  in  many  a  city  street, 
Or  far  where  lonely  workers  break  the  soil, 

Are  shrines  where  Thou,  the  Merciful,  dost  meet, 
In  love's  embrace,  the  weary  ones  that  toil. 

For  them  Thy  hospitable  board  is  spread, 

With  Thee,  Thy  very  Self,  their  Daily  Bread! 


TO  ASK  OUR  LADY'S  PATRONAGE  FOR  A 
BOOK  ON  COLUMBUS:  A  FRAGMENT 

By  Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee 

Star  of  the  Sea,  to  whom,  age  after  age. 

The  maiden  kneels  whose  lover  sails  the  sea; 
Star,  that  the  drowning  death-pang  can  assuage, 

And  shape  the  soul's  course  to  eternity; 
Mother  of  God,  to  Egypt's  realm  exiled. 

Mother  of  God,  in  Bethlehem's  crib  confined, 
Thee  do  I  ask  to  aid  my  anxious  mind. 

And  make  this  book  find  favour  with  thy  Child. 

Of  one  who  lived  and  laboured  in  thy  ray, 

I  would  rehearse  the  striving  and  success; 
Through  the  dense  past  I  ne'er  shall  find  my  way. 

Unless  thou  helpest,  hold  Comfortress; 
A  world  of  doubt  and  darkness  to  evade; 

An  ocean  all  unknown  to  Christian  kind ; 
Another  world  by  nature's  self  arrayed, 

O'er  the  wide  waste  of  waves,  I  seek  to  find. 


THE  SHEPHERDESS  163 

A  GENERAL  COMMUNION 
By  Alice  Meynell 

I  SAW  the  throng,  so  deeply  separate, 

Fed  at  one  only  board — 
The  devout  people,  moved,  intent,  elate, 

And  the  devoted  Lord. 

Oh  struck  apart!  not  side  from  human  side. 

But  soul  from  human  soul, 
As  each  asunder  absorbed  the  multiplied, 

The  ever  unparted  whole. 

I  saw  this  people  as  a  field  of  flowers. 

Each  grown  at  such  a  price 
The  sum  of  unimaginable  powers 

Did  no  more  than  suffice. 

A  thousand  single  central  daisies  they, 

A  thousand  of  the  one; 
For  each  the  entire  monopoly  of  day; 

For  each,  the  whole  of  the  devoted  sun. 

THE  SHEPHERDESS 
By  Alice  Meynell 

She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 
Her  flocks  are  thoughts.     She  keeps  them  white ; 

She  guards  them  from  the  steep ; 
She  feeds  them  on  the  fragrant  height, 

And  folds  them  in  for  sleep. 


164  CHRIST  IN   THE   UNIVERSE 

She  roams  maternal  hills  and  bright. 

Dark  valleys  safe  and  deep. 
Into  that  tender  breast  at  night 

The  chastest  stars  may  peep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

She  holds  her  little  thoughts  in  sight. 

Though  gay  they  run  and  leap. 
She  is  so  circumspect  and  right; 

She  has  her  soul  to  keep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

CHRIST  IN  THE  UNIVERSE 

By  Alice  Meynell 

With  this  ambiguous  earth 
His  dealings  have  been  told  us.    These  abide: 
The  signal  to  a  maid,  the  human  birth, 
The  lesson,  and  the  young  Man  crucified. 

But  not  a  star  of  all 
The  innumberable  host  of  stars  has  heard 
How  He  administered  this  terrestrial  ball. 
Our  race  have  kept  their  Lord's  entrusted  Word. 

Of  His  earth-visiting  feet 
None  knows  the  secret,  cherished,  perilous, 
The  terrible,  shamefast,  frightened,  whispered,  sweet, 
Heart-shattering  secret  of  His  way  with  us. 


"/  AM  THE  WAY"  165 

No  planet  knows  that  this 
Our  v/ayside  planet,  carrying  land  and  wave. 
Love  and  life  multiplied,  and  pain  and  bliss, 
Bears,  as  chief  treasure,  one  forsaken  grave, 

Nor,  in  our  little  day. 
May  his  devices  with  the  heavens  be  guessed, 
His  pilgrimage  to  tread  the  Milky  Way 
Or  His  bestowals  there  be  manifest. 

But  in  the  eternities. 
Doubtless  we  shall  compare  together,  hear 
A  million  alien  Gospels,  in  what  guise 
He  trod  the  Pleiades,  the  Lyre,  the  Bear. 

O,  be  prepared,  my  soul! 
To  read  the  inconceivable,  to  scan 
The  million  forms  of  God  those  stars  enroll 
When,  in  our  turn,  we  show  to  them  a  Man. 


"I  AM  THE  WAY" 

By  Alice  Meynell 

Thou  art  the  Way. 

Hadst  Thou  been  nothing  but  the  goal, 

I  cannot  say 
If  Thou  hadst  ever  met  my  soul. 

I  cannot  see — 
I,  child  of  process — if  there  lies 

An  end  for  me, 
Full  of  repose,  full  of  replies, 


166  UNTO  US  A  SON  IS  GIVEN 

I'll  not  reproach 
The  road  that  winds,  my  feet  that  err. 

Access,  approach 
Art  Thou,  Time,  Way,  and  Wayfarer. 


VIA,  ET  VERITAS,  ET  VITA 

By  Alice  Meynell 

"You  never  attained  to  Him."  "If  to  attain 
Be  to  abide,  then  that  may  be." 
"Endless  the  way,  followed  with  how  much  pain ! 
"The  way  was  He." 


UNTO  US  A  SON  IS  GIVEN 

By  Alice  Meynell 

GiVEN^  not  lent, 

And  not  withdrawn — once  sent, 
This  Infant  of  mankind,  this  One, 
Is  still  the  little  welcome  Son. 

New  every  year. 

New  born  and  newly  dear, 

He  comes  with  tidings  and  a  song. 

The  ages  long,  the  ages  long; 


TO  A  DAISY  167 

Even  as  the  cold 

Keen  winter  grows  not  old, 

As  childhood  is  so  fresh,  foreseen, 

And  spring  in  the  familiar  green. 

Sudden   as   sweet 

Come  the  expected  feet. 

All  joy  is  young,  and  new  all  art, 

And  He,  too.  Whom  we  have  by  heart. 


TO  A  DAISY 
By  Alice  Meynell 

Slight  as  thou  art,  thou  art  enough  to  hide 
Like  all  created  things,  secrets  from  me. 
And  stand  a  barrier  to  eternity. 

And  I,  how  can  I  praise  thee  well  and  wide 

From  where  I  dwell — upon  the  hither  side  ? 
Thou  little  veil  for  so  great  mystery, 
When  shall  I  penetrate  all  things  and  thee. 

And  then  look  back  ?    For  this  I  must  abide. 

Till  thou  shalt  grow  and  fold  and  be  unfurled 
Literally  between  me  and  the  world. 
Then  I  shall  drink  from  in  beneath  a  spring. 

And  from  a  poet's  side  shall  read  his  book. 
O  daisy  mine,  what  will  it  be  to  look 

From  God's  side  even  of  such  a  simple  thing? 


168  THE  FOLDED  FLOCK 

THE  NEWER  VAINGLORY 
By  Alice  Meynell 

Two  men  went  up  to  pray ;  and  one  gave  thanks, 

Not  with  himself  aloud, 
With  proclamation,  calling  on  the  ranks 

Of  an  attentive  crowd. 

"Thank  God,  I  clap  not  my  own  humble  breast, 

But  other  ruffians'  backs, 
Imputing  crime — such  is  my  tolerant  haste — 

To  any  man  that  lacks. 

"For  I  am  tolerant,  generous,  keep  no  rules, 

And  the  age  honors  me. 
Thank  God,  I  am  not  as  these  rigid  fools. 

Even  as  this  Pharisee." 


THE  FOLDED  FLOCK 

By  Wilfrid  Meynell 

I  SAW  the  shepherd  fold  the  sheep, 
With  all  the  little  lambs  that  leap. 

O  Shepherd  Lord,  so  I  would  be 
Folded  with  all  my  family. 

Or  go  they  early,  come  they  late. 

Their  mother  and  I  must  count  them  eigfit. 


CONVENT  ECHOES  169 

And  how,  for  us,  were  any  heaven 
If  we,  sore-stricken,  saw  but  seven? 

Kind  Shepherd,  as  of  old  Thou'lt  run 
And  fold  at  need  a  straggling  one. 


CONVENT  ECHOES 

By  Helen  Louise  Moriarty 

Clear  on  the  air,  their  pulsing  cadence  pealing, 

I  hear  a  sweet  refrain, 
While  o'er  my  thoughts  a  gentle  mist  is  stealing. 

And  mem'ries  come  again, 

Of  quiet  halls  where  dusk  is  slow  descending. 

Where  peace  has  spread  her  wings. 
Soft  music  in  the  distance  only  lending 

More  charms  where  twilight  clings. 

Anon  appear  the  black  robed  nuns,  their  faces 

Serene  in  sweet  repose ; 
Across  their  brows  the  world  has  left  no  traces 

Of  earthly  dreams  or  woes. 

Now  loud  on  air  the  organ  music  swelling, 

They  reach  the  chapel  door — 
The  sweet  faint  incense  stealing  upward,  telling 

'Tis  Benediction's  hour. 

Now  low-bowed  heads,  and  hearts  to  Him  ascending 

On  incense  laden  air. 
Ah  surely  Heaven  must  smile  with  ear  attending 

The  nun's  low  whispered  prayer. 


170  ENGLAND 

Fond  memory  lingers  on  those  dim  old  hallways — 

Lingers  and  drops  a  tear, 
And  kind  affection  drapes  the  picture  always 

Through  each  succeeding  year. 


ENGLAND 

By  John  Henry  Newman 

Tyre  of  the  West,  and  glorying  in  the  name 

More  than  in  Faith's  pure  fame ! 
O  trust  not  crafty  fort  nor  rock  renown'd 

Earn'd  upon  hostile  ground ; 
Wielding  Trade's  master-keys,  at  thy  proud  will 
To  lock  or  loose  its  waters,  England !  trust  not  still. 

Dread  thine  own  power!     Since  haughty  Babel's  prime, 

High  towers  have  been  man's  crime. 
Since  her  hoar  age,  when  the  huge  moat  lay  bare, 

Strongholds  have  been  man's  snare. 
7'hy  nest  is  in  the  crags ;  ah,  refuge  frail ! 
Mad  counsels  in  its  hour,  or  traitors,  will  prevail. 

He  who  scann'd  Sodom  for  His  righteous  men 

Still  spares  thee  for  thy  ten ; 
But,  should  vain  tongues  the  Bride  of  Heaven  defy, 

He  will  not  pass  thee  by; 
For,  as  earth's  kings  welcome  their  spotless  guests, 
So  gives  He  them  by  turn,  to  suffer  or  be  blest. 


THE  GREEK  FATHERS  171 

THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  CLOUD 

By  John  Henry  Newman 

Lead,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on ! 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home — 

Lead  Thou  me  on ! 
Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  .distant  scene, — one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  pray'd  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on. 
I  lov'd  to  choose  and  see  my  path;  but  now 

Lead  Thou  me  on! 
I  lov'd  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  rul'd  my  will :  remember  not  past  years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  bless'd  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on, 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone ; 
And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  lov'd  long  since,  and  lost  awhile. 

THE  GREEK  FATHERS 

By  John  Henry  Newman 

Let  heathen  sing  thy  heathen  praise, 
Fall'n  Greece!  the  thought  of  holier  days 

In  my  sad  heart  abides ; 
For  sons  of  thine  in  Truth's  first  hour 


172  RELICS  OF  SAINTS 

Were  tongues  and  weapons  of  His  power. 
Born  of  the  Spirit's  fiery  shower, 
Our  fathers  and  our  guides. 

All  thine  is  Clement's  varied  page  J 
And  Dionysius,  ruler  sage, 

In  days  of  doubt  and  pain ; 
And  Origen  with  eagle  eye; 
And  saintly  Basil's  purpose  high 
To  smite  imperial  heresy, 

And  cleanse  the  Altar's  stain. 

From  thee  the  glorious  preacher  came, 
With  soul  of  zeal  and  lips  of  flame, 

A  court's  stern  martyr-guest; 
And  thine,  O  inexhaustive  race! 
Was  Nazianzen's  heaven-taught  grace; 
And  royal-hearted  Athanase, 

With  Paul's  own  mantel  blessed. 


RELICS  OF  SAINTS 

By  John  Henry  Newman 

"He  is  not  the  God  of  the  dead,  but  of  the  living ;  for  all  live 
unto  Him." 

'The  Fathers  are  in  dust,  yet  live  to  God :" 
So  says  the  Truth;  as  if  the  motionless  clay 

Still  held  the  seeds  of  life  beneath  the  sod, 
Smouldering  and  straggling  till  the  judgment  day. 


THE  SON  OF  GOD  173 

And  hence  we  learn  with  reverence  to  esteem 
Of  these  frail  houses,  though  the  grave  confines; 

Sophist  may  urge  his  cunning  tests,  and  deem 
That  they  are  earth; — but  they  are  heavenly  shrines. 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CROSS 
By  John  Henry  Newman 

Whene'er  across  this  sinful  flesh  of  mine 

I  draw  the  Holy  Sign, 
All  good  thoughts  stir  within  me,  and  renew 

Their  slumbering  strength  divine ; 
Till  there  springs  up  a  courage  high  and  true 

To  suffer  and  to  do. 

And  who  shall  say,  but  hateful  spirits  around, 

For  their  brief  hour  unbound. 
Shudder  to  see,  and  wail  their  overthrow? 

While  on  far  heathen  ground 
Some  lonely  Saint  hails  the  fresh  odour,  though 

Its  source  he  cannot  know? 


THE  SON  OF  GOD 

By  Chakles  L.  O'Donnell,  CjS.C 

The  fount  of  Mary's  joy 

Revealed  now  lies, 
For,  lo,  has  not  the  Boy 

His  Father's  eyes? 


174  TO  ST.  JOSEPH 

TO  ST.  JOSEPH 
By  Charles  L.  O'Donnell,  CS.C 

St.  Joseph,  when  the  day  was  done 
And  all  your  work  put  by, 

You  saw  the  stars  come  one  by  one 
Out  in  the  violet  sky. 

You  did  not  know  the  stars  by  name. 
But  there  sat  at  your  knee 

One  who  had  made  the  light  and  flame 
And  all  things  bright  that  be. 

You  heard  with  Him  birds  in  the  tree 
Twittet- "Good-night"  o'erhead, — 

The  Maker  of  the  world  must  se^ 
His  little  ones  to  bed. 

Then  when  the  darkness  settled  round. 
To  Him  your  prayers  were  said ; 

No  wonder  that  your  sleep  was  ground 
The  angels  loved  to  tread. 


THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN  175 

THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN 

Iir  memory  of  Brother  Basil, 
Organist  for  half  a  century  at  Notre  Dame 

By  Charles  L.  O'Donnell,  C.S.C. 

He  was  the  player  and  the  played  upon, 

He  was  the  actor  and  the  acted  on, 

Artist,  and  yet  himself  a  substance  wrought; 

God  played  on  him  as  he  upon  the  keys, 

Moving  his  soul  to  mightiest  melodies 

Of  lowly  serving,  hid  austerities. 

And  holy  thought  that  our  high  dream  out-tops,-* 

He  was  an  organ  where  God  kept  the  stops. 

Naught,  naught 
Of  all  he  gave  us  came  so  wondrous  clear 
As  that  he  sounded  to  the  Master's  ear. 

Wedded  he  was  to  the  immortal  Three, 
Poverty,  Obedience  and  Chastity, 
And  in  a  fourth  he  found  them  all  expressed. 
For  him  all  gathered  were  in  Music's  breast, 
And  in  God's  house 
He  took  her  for  his  spouse, — 
High  union  that  the  world's  eye  never  scans 

Nor  world's  way  knows. 
Not  any  penny  of  applauding  hands 
He  caught,  nor  would  have  caught. 
Not  any  thought 
Save  to  obey 
Obedience  that  bade  him  play, 
And  for  his  bride 


176  THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN 

To  have  none  else  beside, 
That  both  might  keep  unflecked  their  virgin  snowist. 


Yet  by  our  God's  great  law 

Such  marriage  issue  saw, 

As  they  who  cast  away  may  keep, 

Who  sow  not  reap. 

In  Chastity  entombed 

His  manhood  bloomed, 

And  children  not  of  earth 

Had  spotless  birth. 
With  might  unmortal  was  he  strong 

That  he  begot 

Of  what  was  not, 
Within  the  barren  womb  of  silence,  song. 

Yea,  many  sons  he  had 
To  make  his  sole  heart  glad — 
Romping  the  boundless  meadows  of  the  air. 
Skipping  the  cloudy  hills,  and  climbing  bold 
The  heavens*  nightly  stairs  of  starry  gold. 

Nay,  winning  heaven's  door 

To  mingle  evermore 
With  deathless  troops  of  angel  harmony. 

He  filled  the  house  of  God 

With  servants  at  his  nod, 
A  music-host  of  moving  pagentry. 
Lo,  this  priest,  and  that  an  acolyte: 

Ah,  such  we  name  aright 

Creative  art, 
To  body  forth  love  slumbering  at  the  heart  .  ,  . 

Fools,  they  who  pity  him, 

Imagine  dirrj 


THE  DEAD  MUSICIAN  VII 

Days  that  the  world's  glare  brightens  not. 
Until  the  seraphim 
Shake   from  their  flashing  hair 
Lightnings,  and  weave  serpents  there. 
His  days  we  reckon  fair.  .  .  . 

Yet  more  he  had  than  this ; 
Lord  of  the  liberative  kiss, 
To  own  and  yet  refrain, 
To  hold  his  hand  in  reign. 
High  continence  of  his  high  power, 
That  turns  from  virtue's  very  flower, 
In  loss  of  that  elected  pain 
A  greater  prize  to  gain. 
As  one  who  long  had  put  wine  by 
Would  now  himself  deny 
Water,  and  thirsting  die. 
So,  sometimes  he  was  idle  at  the  keys, 
Pale  fingers  on  the  aged  ivories; 

Then,  like  a  prisoned  bird, 
Music  was  seen,  not  heard. 
Then  were  his  quivering  hands  most  strong 
With  blood  of  the  repressed  song, — 
A  fruitful  barrenness.     Oh,  where 

Out  of  angelic  air, 
This  side  the  heavens'  spheres 
Such  sight  to  start  and  hinder  tears. 
Who  knows,  perhaps  while  silence  throbbed 
He  heard  the  De  Profundis  sobbed 
By  his  own  organ  at  his  bier  to-day, — 
It  is  the  saints'  anticipative  way, 
He  knew  both  hand  and  ear  were  clay. 
That  was  one  thought 


178  GIOTTO'S   CAMPANILE 

Never  is  music  wrought, 
For  silence  only  could  that  truth  convey. 
Widowed  of  him,  his  organ  now  is  still, 
His  music-children  fled,  their  echoing  feet  yet  fill 
The  blue,  far  reaches  of  the  vaulted  nave, 
The  heart  that  sired  them,  pulseless  in  the  grave. 
Only  the  song  he  made  is  hushed,  his  soul, 
Responsive  to  God's  touch,  in  His  control 
Elsewhere  shall  tune  the  termless  ecstasy 
Of  one  who  all  his  life  kept  here 

An  alien  ear, 
Homesick  for  harpings  of  eternity. 


GIOTTO'S  CAMPANILE 
By  Thomas  O'Hagan 

O  PULSING  heart  with  voice  attuned 

To  all  the  soul  builds  high. 
Framing  in  notes  of  love  divine 

A  drama  of  the  sky. 
Across  the  Arno's  flowing  tide 

The  notes  chime  on  the  air, 

Deep  as  the  mysteries  of  God 

And  tender  as  a  prayer. 

Here,  where  the  Poet  of  Sorrows  dwelt. 

Whose  altar  Love  had  built, 
And  framed  his  morn  in  dreams  so  pure 

That  knew  not  stain  nor  guilt: 
O  Vita  Nuova!    Earthly  Love 

Then  changed  to  love  Divine; 


NAME  OF  MARY  179 

Transfigured  at  the  wedding- feast, 
Earth's  grapes  are  heavenly  wine. 

Where  cowled  monk  with  soul  of  fire 

Struck  vice  athwart  the  face, 
With  God's  anointed  sword  of  truth 

That  flashed  with  beams  of  grace. 
O  bitter  days  of  war  and  strife ! 

Heaven's  ardor  was  too  great; 
The  Empire  of  the  earth  held  sway 

And  sealed  with  saddest  fate. 

Methinks  I  hear  from  thy  strong  lips, 

O  century-dowered  bell! 
The  story  of  the  Whites  and  Blacks, 

As  banners  rose  or  fell; 
Methinks  I  hear  an  epic  voice, 

Full  of  God's  love  and  power, 
With  accent  of  an  Exile  sad 

Speaking  from  out  thy  tower! 

NAME  OF  MARY 
By  John  Boyle  O'Reilly 

Dear,  honored  name,  beloved  for  human  ties, 
But  loved  and  honored  first  that  One  was  given 

In  living  proof,  to  erring  mortal  eyes. 

That  our  poor  flesh  is  near  akin  to  heaven. 

Sweet  word  of  dual  meaning:  one  of  grace, 
And  born  of  our  kind  Advocate  above; 

And  one,  by  mercy  linked  to  that  dear  face 

That  blessed  my  childhood  with  its  mother-lovg, 


180  A  CHRISTMAS   CAROL 

And  taught  me  first  the  simple  prayer:  "To  thee, 
Poor  banished  sons  of  Eve,  we  send  our  cries." 

Through  mist  of  years,  those  words  recall  to  me 
A  childish  face  upturned  to  loving  eyes. 

And  yet,  to  some  the  name  of  Mary  bears 
No  special  meaning  and  no  gracious  power; 

In  that  dear  word  they  seek  for  hidden  snares, 
As  wasps  find  poison  in  the  sweetest  flower. 

But  faithful  hearts  can  see,  o'er  doubts  and  fears, 
The  Virgin-link  that  binds  the  Lord  to  earth ; 

Which,  to  the  upturned  trusting  face,  appears 
Greater  than  angel,  though  of  human  birth. 

The  sweet-faced  moon  reflects,  on  cheerless  night, 
The  rays  of  hidden  sun  that  rise  to-morrow ; 

So,  unseen  God  still  lets  his  promised  light, 
Through  holy  Mary,  shine  upon  our  sorrow. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 
By  Mary  A.  O'Reilly 

Night  in  the  far  Judean  land, 

The  pregnant  air  is  still, 
The  sky  one  blue  unclouded  band, 

Seems  drooping  o'er  each  hill. 
The  hills  then  toward  each  other  bend. 
Some  mighty  secret  to  portend, 

Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL  181 

The  sheep  in  near-by  pastures  browse. 

Some  bleat  as  if  in  pain; 
The  youthful  shepherds  watch  and  drowse. 

Then  drowse  and  watch  again; 
When  lo!  a  light  from  Heaven  appears 
Which  makes  them  huddle  in  their  fears. 

Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo. 


God's  glory  shone  around  them  there, 

And  then  an  angel  cried — 
"Fear  not,  for  I  good  tidings  bear 

To  you,  and  all  beside. 
For  unto  you  is  born  this  day 
A  Savior,  Christ  the  Lord."    We  pray — 

Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo. 


Then  swinging  from  the  skies  there  came 

Groups  of  the  heavenly  host. 
Praising  the  Lord  in  sweet  acclaim — 

The  burden  of  their  toast — 
"Glory  to  God  on  High,"  again — 
His  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men.** 

Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo. 


Within  a  stable  sweet  with  hay. 
And  warm  with  breath  of  kine. 

The  Baby  and  His  Mother  lay, 
O,  mystery  divine! 

The  bed  of  straw  a  cloud  appears. 

We  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo. 


182  ROMA   MATER  SEMPAETERNA 

Dear  maiden  mother,  let  us  now, 
While  to  your  breast  He  clings, 

In  humble  adoration  bow 
With  shepherds  and  with  kings, 

And  at  His  feet  our  off'ring  be 

Praise,  love,  faith,  hope  and  charity. 
Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo. 


ROMA  MATER  SEMPAETERNA 
By  Shaemas  O.  Sheel 

The  blue  skies  bend  and  are  about  her  furled, 
A  maiden  mantle;  and  with  lilies  bright 
The  sun  daywhiles  doth  crown  her,  and  at  night 

With  stars  her  garment's  border  is  empearled. 

Not  a  king's  favorite,  perfumed  and  curled. 
Is  half  so  fair;  no  queen  of  martial  might 
So  potent  as  the  Mother  of  the  Light, 

The  Mary  of  the  Cities  of  the  World ! 

Eternal  Mother,  at  whose  breasts  of  white 

The  infant  Church  was  suckled  and  made  strong 

With  the  sweet  milk  of  heavenly  Truth  and  Love, 
O  thou  that  art  all  nations  set  above, 
Strengthen  us  still  because  the  way  is  long, 
Mary  of  Cities,  Mother  of  the  Light! 


THEY  WENT  FORTH  TO  BATTLE  183 

MARY'S  BABY 
By  Shaemas  O.  Sheel 

Joseph,  mild  and  noble,  bent  above  the  straw: 
A  pale  girl,  a  frail  girl,  suffering,  he  saw ; 
"O  my  Love,  my  Mary,  my  bride,  I  pity  thee !" 
"Nay,  Dear,"  said  Mary,  "All  is  well  with  me !" 

"Baby,  my  Baby,  O  my  Babe,"  she  sang. 

Suddenly  the  golden  night  all  with  music  rang. 

Angels  leading  shepherds,  shepherds  leading  sheep : 
The  silence  of  worship  broke  the  mother's  sleep. 
All  the  meek  and  lowly  of  the  world  were  there; 
Smiling  she  showed  them  that  her  Child  was  fair. 

"Baby,  my  Baby,"  kissing  Him  she  said. 

Suddenly  a  flaming  star  through  the  heavens  sped. 

Three  old  men  and  weary  knelt  them  side  by  side, 
The  world's  wealth  forswearing,  majesty  and  pride; 
Worldly  might  and  wisdom  before  the  Babe  bent  low : 
Weeping,  maid  Mary  said  "I  love  Him  so!" 

"Baby,  my  Baby,"  and  the  Baby  slept. 

Suddenly  on  Calvary  all  the  olives  wept. 

THEY  WENT  FORTH  TO  BATTLE 
By  Shaemas  O.  Sheel 

They  went  forth  to  battle,  but  they  always  fell; 

Their  eyes  were  fixed  above  the  sullen  shields; 
Nobly  they  fought  and  bravely,  but  not  well, 
And  sank  heart-wounded  by  a  subtle  spell. 


184       HE  WHOM  A  DREAM  HATH  POSSESSED 

They  knew  not  fear  that  to  the  foeman  yields, 
They  were  not  weak,  as  one  who  vainly  wields 
A  futile  weapon,  yet  the  sad  scrolls  tell 
How  on  the  hard-fought  field  they  always  fell. 

It  was  a  secret  music  that  they  heard, 

A  sad  sweet  plea  for  pity  and  for  peace ; 
And  that  which  pierced  the  heart  was  but  a  word, 
Though  the  white  breast  was  red-lipped  where  the  sword 
Pressed  a  fierce  cruel  kiss,  to  put  surcease 
On  its  hot  thirst,  but  drank  a  hot  increase. 
Ah,  then  by  some  strange  troubling  doubt  were  stirred. 
And  died  for  hearing  what  no  foeman  heard. 

They  went  forth  to  battle  but  they  always  fell ; 

Their  might  was  not  the  might  of  lifted  spears; 
Over  the  battle-clamor  came  a  spell 
Of  troubling  music,  and  they  fought  not  well. 

Their  wreaths  are  willows  and  their  tribute,  tears; 

Their  names  are  old  sad  stories  in  men's  ears ; 
Yet  they  will  scatter  the  red  hordes  of  Hell, 
Who  went  to  battle  forth  and  always  fell. 


HE  WHOM  A  DREAM  HATH  POSSESSED 
By  Shaemas  O.  Sheel 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more  of 

doubting. 
For  mist  and  the  blowing  of  winds  and  the  mouthing  of 

words  he  scorns ; 
Not  the  sinuous  speech  of  schools  he  hears,  but  a  knightly 

shouting, 


HE  WHOM  A  DREAM  HATH  POSSESSED        185 

And  never  comes  darkness  down,  yet  he  greeteth  a 
million  morns. 


He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more  o£ 
roaming ; 
All  roads  and  the  flowing  of  waves  and  the  speediest 
flight  he  knows, 
But  wherever  his  feet  are  set,  his  soul  is  forever  homing, 
And  going  he  comes,  and  coming  he  heareth  a  call  and 
goes. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more  of 
sorrow, 
At  death  and  the  dropping  of  leaves  and  the  fading  of 
suns  he  smiles, 
For  a  dream  remembers  no  past  and  scorns  the  desire  of 
a  morrow. 
And  a  dream  in  a  sea  of  doom  sets  surely  the  ultimate 
isles. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  treads  the  impalpable 
marches, 
From  the  dust  of  the  day's  long  road  he  leaps  to  a 
laughing  star, 
And  the  ruin  of  worlds  that  fall  he  views  from  eternal 
arches. 
And  rides  God's  battle-field  in  a  flashing  and  golden 
car. 


186  MARIA  IMMACULATA 

MARIA  IMMACULATA 
By  Cond^  Benoist  Fallen 


How  may  I  sing,  unworthy  I, 

Our  Lady's  glorious  sanctity? 

She  whose  celestial  shoon 

Rest  on  the  horned  moon 

In  Heaven's  highest  galaxy; 

She  whom  the  poet  sang  of  old 

In  that  rare  vision  told 

In  soft  Tuscan  speech  of  gold. 

The  spotless  spouse  and  mother-maid 

The  goodliest  sapphire  in  Heaven's  floor  inlaid, 

Around  whom  wheels  the  circling  flame 

Of  the  rapt  seraph  breathing  Mary's  name, 

While  choir  to  choir  replies 

In  growing  harmonies 

Through  all  the  glowing  spheres  of  Paradise, 

Till  universal  Heaven's  glad  estate 

Rings  jubilation  to  their  queen  immaculate. 

II 

Ah  me !    Unworthy  I  to  sing 
The  stainless  mother  of  my  King, 
My  King  and  Lord, 
The  Incarnate  Word, 
Heaven  itself  comprest 
Within  her  virgin  breast ! 
11  )W  may  my  faltering  rhyme 
3ing  of  Eternity  in  time, 


MARIA  IMMACULATA  187 

Omnipotence  in  human  frailty  exprest, 

Our  earthly  garden  fragrant  with  celestial  thyme. 

What  Muse,  though  great  Urania  guide  her  flight, 

May  dare  the  sacrosanct  and  awful  height 

Of  that  mysterious  sublime 

Within  the  secret  counsels  of  the  Infinite! 

Omniscence  there  supreme  and  sole 

Clasps  the  beginning  and  the  whole 

Of  Love  beyond  created  sight, 

Uncreate  and  quintessential  light! 

Before  the  splendor  of  that  ray 

Cherub  and  seraph  fall  away 

Dazzled  and  broken  by  excess 

Of  everpowering  blessedness. 

Yet  panting  for  the  fulness  of  the  bliss 

That   breathes    consuming   fire    from   Love's   unkenned 

abyss. 
Not  through  that  fiery  sphere  my  way. 
But  here  where  shines  the  veiled  day, 
The  flames  of  mystery  insteeped 
In  this  our  mortal  clay; 
For  in  her  maiden  breast  asleep 
Lies  all  the  Love  of  Heaven's  deep. 
The  holy  circle  of  her  zone 
Incarnate  Love's  terrestrial  throne, 

III 

The  great  archangel  veils  his  face 

Before  her:  "Hail,  full  of  grace!" 

And  Heaven  is  clasped  of  earth; 

While  all  the  wheeling  spheres  with  all  their  choirs 

Around  her  wheel  seraphic  fires. 

Eden  rises  to  its  second  birth ; 


188  MARIA  IMMACULATA 

Again  the  prime  estate 

Of  man  is  renovate, 

And  all  the  elder  worth  renewed  in  her  immaculate; 

Virgin  and  spouse  of  Him 

Who  breathes  the  virtue  of  the  Seraphim, 

Virgin  and  mother  of  the  Eternal  Son, 

Daughter,  Virgin,  Spouse  in  one! 

The  spotless  mate  of  spotless  Dove, 

The  one  great  miracle  of  God's  love. 

From  all  eternity  the  chosen  bride. 

Save  only  her  none,  none 

Exempt  from  sin's  dominion; 

Save  only  her  of  Adam's  race 

Or  heavenly  line,  none  full  of  grace; 

On  her  alone,  on  her  alone 

The  torrent  of  His  love  poured  down 

The  deep  abundance  of  its  flood 

Into  the  pure  channels  of  her  maidenhood. 

The  fleckless  mirror  of  her  grace 

Reflecting  all  the  beauty  of  His  Face. 

lY 

She  looks  with  human  eyes 

Into  the  eyes  of  Paradise; 

Upon  her  virgin  breast  the  Babe  Divine 

Gazes  again  into  her  eyne; 

O  vanity  of  words  to  tell 

The  wonder  of  that  spell, 

The  ravishment  of  bliss 

Upwelling  from  the  deep  abyss 

Of  Love  incarnate  gazing  in  the  eyes 

Of  his  terrestrial  paradise! 

See  Heaven  within  her  arms. 


MARIA  IMMACULATA  189 

Gathered  against  all  harms, 

Innocence  by  innocence  addrest, 

Virgin  love  by  virgin  love  carest, 

The  sinless  mother  and  the  sinless  Son 

For  Heaven  and  earth  to  gaze  upon ! 

Her  living  image  on  her  knee, 

O  the  depths  of  her  maternity ! 

Her  God,  her  Infant  at  her  breast, 

O  Love  beyond  all  utterance  exprest. 

The  Eternal  Word  in  virgin  flesh  made  manifest! 

V 

Ye  sons  of  Adam  rejoice 

With  exultant  voice ! 

Shake  off  your  chains  !    Arise ! 

The  ancient  dragon  has  no  power 

O'er  Jesse's  virgin  flower. 

And  stricken  'neath  a  maiden's  sandal  lies. 

Nor  may  his  venomed  breath  so  much 

As  her  garment's  outer  margin  touch; 

And  sin's  torrential  flood. 

That  whelmed  all  Adam's  flesh  and  blood. 

Its  loathsome  stream  turns  back 

Before  her  footsteps'  radiant  track. 

VI 

Rejoice,  children  of  men! 

Behold  again 

Your  flesh  rejuvenate 

In  her  immaculate! 

Rejoice  with  exceeding  joy, 

For  in  her  free  from  sin's  alloy 

Your  renovated  race 


190  MARIA  IMMACULATA 

In  plentitude  of  grace 

Dare  look  again  unshamed  upon  its  Maker's  Face! 

Chosen  to  bear  the  Eternal  Word, 

In  her  your  more  than  dignity  restored ; 

In  her  the  more  than  golden  worth 

Of  Eden's  prime  when  Heaven  was  linked  with  earth; 

Unstained  by  Adam's  guilty  forfeiture, 

In  her  your  long  corrupted  flesh  made  pure; 

For  of  her,  flesh  of  flesh  and  bone  of  bone, 

Eternal  Love  builds  up  His  stainless  throne! 

VII 

Rejoice  and  be  glad  this  day! 

In  jubilation  lay 

Your  tribute  at  her  feet. 

Spotless  and  most  meet, 

The  mystic  rose  of  Jesse's  root, 

To  bear  the  heavenly  fruit ; 

Wisdom's  seat  and  Heaven's  gate, 

Our  surest  advocate. 

Mother  of  God  immaculate! 

Be  glad,  O  Adam's  clay, 

Be  glad  this  happy  day. 

And  with  accordant  voice  acclaim 

Our  spotless  Lady's  stainless  fame; 

Be  ye  exceeding  glad  and  sing 

The  mother  of  our  King. 

And  though  unworthy  be  my  strain, 

She  is  too  tender  not  to  deign 

To  lend  a  gracious  ear 

To  this  her  children's  humble  prayer: 

Mother  of  Mercy,  hear! 

Mother  whose  face  is  likest  His^ 


THE  RAISING  OF  THE  FLAG  191 

Who  our  Redeemer  is, 

Grant  us  one  day  to  share 

Thy  happiness  in  gazing  on  His  Face, 

Who  found  thee  without  spot  and  full  of  grace! 


[THE  RAISING  OF  THE  FLAG 

By  Conde  Benoist  Fallen 

Lift  up  the  banner  of  our  love 

To  the  kiss  of  the  winds  above, 

The  banner  of  the  vi^orld's  fair  hope, 

Set  with  stars  from  the  azure  cope, 

When  liberty  was  young, 

And  yet  unsung 

Clarioned  her  voice  among 

The  trodden  peoples,  and  stirred 

The  pulses  with  her  word, 

Till  the  swift  flood  red 

From  the  quick  heart  sped, 

Flushing  valour's  cheek  with  flame 

At  sounding  of  her  august  sacred  name! 

Lift  up  the  banner  of  the  stars, 

The  standard  of  the  double  bars. 

Red  with  the  holy  tide 

Of  heroes'  blood,  who  died 

At  the  feet  of  liberty. 

Shouting  her  battle-cry 

Triumphantly 

As  they  fell  like  sickled  corn 

In  that  first  resplendent  jnorn 


192  THE  RAISING  OF  THE  FLAG 

Of  freedom,  glad  to  die 

In  the  dawn  of  her  clear  eye! 

Lift  up  the  flag  of  starry  blue 
Caught  from  the  crystal  hue 
Of  central  heaven's  glowing  dome, 
Where  the  great  winds  largely  roam 
In  unrestrained  liberty; 
Caught  from  the  cerulean  sea 
Of  midmost  ocean  tossing  free, 
Flecked  with  the  racing  foam 
Of  rushing  waters,  as  they  leap 
Unbridled  from  the  laughing  deep 
In  the  gulfs  of  liberty! 

Lift  up  the  banner  red 

With  the  blood  of  heroes  shed 

In  victory! 

Lift  up  the  banner  blue 

As  heaven,  and  as  true 

In  constancy! 

Lift  up  the  banner  white 

As  sea  foam  in  the  light 

Of  liberty; 

The  banner  of  the  triple  hue. 

The  banner  of  the  red  and  white  and  blue, 

Bright  ensign  of  the  free! 

Lift  up  the  banner  of  the  days  to  come, 
When  cease  the  trumpet  and  the  rolling  drum; 
When  peace  in  the  nest  of  love 
Unfolds  the  wings  of  the  dove, 
Brooding  o'er  the  days  to-be, 


THE  RAISING   OF  THE  FLAG  193 

Peace  born  of  freedom's  might, 
Peace  sprung  from  the  power  of  right. 
The  peace  of  Hberty ! 

Lift  up  the  flag  of  high  surprise 
To  greet  the  gladdened  eyes 
Of  peoples  far  and  near, 
The  glorious  harbinger 
Of  earth's  wide  liberties, 
Streaming  pure  and  clear 
In  freedom's  lofty  atmosphere! 

Lift  up  our  hearts  to  Him  who  made  to  shine 

In  Heaven's  arch  the  glorious  sign 

Of  mercy's  heavenly  birth 

To  all  the  peoples  of  the  earth. 

The  pledge  of  peace  divine! 

And  let  our  glorious  banner,  too. 

The  banner  of  the  rainbow's  hue. 

In  heaven's  wide  expanse  unfurled, 

Be  for  a  promise  to  the  world 

Of  peace  to  all  mankind; 

Banner  of  peace  and  light. 

Banner  of  red  and  blue  and  white, 

Red  as  the  crimson  blood 

Of  Christ's  wide  brotherhood, 

Blue  with  the  unchanging  hope 

Of  heaven's  steadfast  sun, 

White  as  the  radiant  sun 

The  whole  earth  shining  on! 


194  THE  BABE  OF  BETHLEHEM 

THE  BABE  OE  BETHLEHEM 
By  Conde  Benoist  Fallen 

O  CRUEL  manger,  how  bleak,  how  bleak ! 

For  the  limbs  of  the  Babe,  my  God; 
Soft  little  limbs  on  the  cold,  cold  straw; 

Weep,  O  eyes,  for  thy  God ! 

Bitter  ye  winds  in  the  frosty  night 

Upon  the  Babe,  my  God, 
Piercing  the  torn  and  broken  thatch ; 

Lament,  O  heart,  for  thy  God! 

Bare  is  the  floor,  how  bare,  how  bare 
For  the  Babe's  sweet  mother,  my  God; 

Only  a  stable  for  mother  and  Babe; 
How  cruel  thy  world,  my  God ! 

Cast  out,  cast  out,  by  his  brother  men 

Unknown  the  Babe,  my  God ; 
The  ox  and  the  ass  alone  are  there; 

Soften,  O  heart,  for  thy  God! 

Dear  little  arms  and  sweet  little  hands, 
That  stretch  for  thy  mother,  my  God; 

Soft  baby  eyes  to  the  mother's  eyes; 
Melt,  O  heart,  for  thy  God ! 

Waxen  touches  on  mother's  heart. 
Fingers  of  the  Babe,  my  God; 

Dear  baby  lips  to  her  virgin  breast. 
The  virc^in  mother  of  God. 


THE  TOYS  195 

The  shepherds  have  come  from  the  hills  to  adore 

The  Babe  in  the  manger,  my  God; 
Mary  and  Joseph  welcome  them  there; 

Worship,  O  soul,  thy  'God  1 

But  I  alone  may  not  come  near 

The  Babe  in  the  manger,  my  God ; 
Weep  for  thy  sins,  O  heart,  and  plead 

With  Mary  the  mother  of  God. 

May  I  not  come,  oh,  just  to  the  door. 

To  see  the  Babe,  my  God; 
There  will  I  stop  and  kneel  and  adore. 

And  weep  for  my  sins,  O  God! 

But  Mary  smiles,  and  rising  up. 

In  her  arms  the  Babe,  my  God, 
She  comes  to  the  door  and  bends  her  down, 

With  the  Babe  in  her  arms,  my  God! 

Her  sinless  arms  in  my  sinful  arms 

Place  the  Babe,  my  God ; 
"He  has  come  to  take  thy  sins  away;" 

Break,  O  heart,  for  thy  God! 


THE  TOYS 

By  Coventry  Patmore 

My  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes 
And  mov'd  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise. 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 
I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 
With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd^ 


196  THE  TOYS 

His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 

Then  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  him  sleep 

I  visited  his  bed. 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep. 

With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

A.nd  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

tie  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  'box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach, 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  carefiil 

art, 
To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said : 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 
And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys, 
How  weakly  understood 
Thy  great  commanded  good. 
Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 
Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 
"I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 


DEPARTURE  19Y 

"IF  I  WERE  DEAD" 

By  Coventry  Patmore 

"If  I  were  dead,  you'd  some  time  say,  Poor  Child!" 

The  dear  lips  quiver'd  as  they  spake, 

And  the  tears  break 

From  eyes,  which,  not  to  grieve  me,  brightly  smiled. 

Poor  Child,  poor  Child! 

I  seem  to  hear  your  laugh,  your  talk,  your  song. 

It  is  not  true  that  Love  will  do  no  wrong. 

Poor  Child! 

And  did  you  think,  when  you  so  cried  and  smiled, 

How  I,  in  lonely  nights,  should  lie  awake, 

And  of  those  words  your  full  avengers  make? 

Poor  Child,  poor  Child! 

And  now,  unless  it  be 

That  sweet  amends  thrice  told  are  come  to  thee, 

O  God,  have  Thou  no  mercy  upon  me! 

Poor  Child! 

DEPARTURE 

By  Coventry  Patmore 

It  was  not  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways! 

Do  you,  that  have  nought  other  to  lament, 

Never,  my  Love,  repent 

Of  how,  that  July  afternoon. 

You  went. 

With  sudden,  unintelligible  phrase. 

And  frightened  eye. 

Upon  your  journey  of  so  many  days 


198  DEPARTURE 

Without  a  single  kiss,  or  a  good-bye? 

I  knew,  indeed,  that  you  were  parting  soon; 

And  so  we  sate,  within  the  low  sun's  rays, 

You  whispering  to  me,  for  your  voice  was  weak. 

Your  harrowing  praise. 

Well,  it  was  well 

To  hear  you  such  things  speak, 

And  I  could  tell 

What  made  your  eyes  a  growing  gloom  of  love. 

As  a  warm  South-wind  sombres  a  March  grove. 

And  it  was  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways 

To  turn  your  talk  on  daily  things,  my  Dear, 

Lifting  the  luminous,  pathetic  lash 

To  let  the  laughter  flash, 

Whilst  I  drew  near, 

Because  you  spoke  so  low  that  I  could  scarcely  hear. 

But  all  at  once  to  leave  me  at  the  last, 

.'More  at  the  wonder  than  the  loss  aghast, 

With  huddled,  unintelligible  phrase, 

And  frighten'd  eye. 

And  go  your  journey  of  all  days 

With  not  one  kiss,  or  a  good-bye, 

And  the  only  loveless  look  the  look  with  which  you 

passed  ; 
'Twas  all  unlike  your  great  and  gracious  ways. 


IDEAL  199 

REGINA  CCELI 

By  Coventry  Pat  more 

Say,  did  his  sisters  wonder  what  could  Joseph  see 

In  a  mild,  silent  little  Maid  like  thee  ? 

And  was  it  awful,  in  that  narrow  house, 

With  God  for  Babe  and  Spouse? 

Nay,  like  thy  simple,  female  sort,  each  one 

Apt  to  find  Him  in  Husband  and  in  Son, 

Nothing  to  thee  came  strange  in  this. 

Thy  wonder  was  but  wondrous  bliss: 

Wondrous,  for,  though 

True  Virgin  lives  not  but  does  know, 

(Howbeit  none  ever  yet  confess'd,) 

That  God  lies  really  in  her  breast, 

Of  thine  He  made  His  special  nest! 

And  so 

All  mothers  worship  little  feet, 

And  kiss  the  very  ground  they've  trod; 

JBut,  ah,  thy  little  Baby  sweet 

Who  was  indeed  thy  God! 

IDEAL 

P.  H.  Pearse 
(Translated  from  the  Irish  by  Thomas  MacDonagh) 

Naked  I  saw  thee, 

O  beauty  of  beauty! 
And  I  blinded  my  eyes 

For  fear  I  should  flinch. 


200 


MUSIC 

I  heard  thy  music, 

O  sweetness  of  sweetness! 
And  I  shut  my  ears 

For  fear  I  should  fail. 

I  kissed  thy  lips, 

O  sweetness  of  sweetness! 
And  I  hardened  my  heart 

For  fear  of  my  ruin. 

I  blinded  my  eyes, 

And  my  ears  I  shut, 
I  hardened  my  heart 

And  my  love  I  quenched. 

I  turned  my  back 

On  the  dream  I  had  shaped, 
And  to  this  road  before  me 

My  face  I  turned. 

I  set  my  face 

To  the  road  here  before  me, 
To  the  work  that  I  see, 

To  the  death  that  I  shall  meet. 


MUSIC 
By  Charles  Phillips 

There  is  a  hunger  in  my  heart  to-night, 

A  longing  in  my  soul,  to  hear 
The  voice  of  heaven  o'er  the  noise  of  earth 

That  doth  assail  mine  ear. 


MUSIC  201 

For  we  are  exiled  children  of  the  skies, 
Lone  and  lost  wanderers  from  home  .  .  . 

The  stars  come  out  like  lamps  in  windows  lit 
Far,  far  from  where  we  roam; 

Like  candles  lit  to  show  the  long  late  way, 

Dear  kindly  beacons  sure  and  bright; 
But  O,  the  heavy  journeying,  and  O 

The  silence  of  the  night! — 

The  dark  and  vasty  silences  that  lie 

Between  the  going  and  the  goal ! 
Will  not  God  reach  a  friendly  hand  to  lift 

And  land  my  weary  soul? 

Will  not  God  speak  a  friendly  word  to  me 

Above  the  tumult  and  the  din 
Of  earthly  things — one  little  word  to  hush 

The  voice  of  care  and  sin?  .  .  . 

He  speaks !     He  answers  my  poor  faltering  prayer ! 

He  opens  heaven's  lattice  wide; 
He  bids  me  bathe  my  brow  in  heavenly  airs 

Like  to  a  flowing  tide ! 

He  calls ;     He  gives  unto  my  famished  soul, 

Unto  my  eager  heart,  its  meed: 
He  breathes  upon  me  with  the  breath  of  song, 

And  O,  my  soul  is  freed, 

And  I  am  lifted  up  and  up,  and  held 

A  little  while — a  child,  to  see 
The  beauties  of  my  Father's  house,  which  shall 

No  more  be  shut  from  me! 


202         THE  STARS  SANG  IN  GOD'S  GARDEN 

I  SEE  HIS  BLOOD  UPON  TH-E  ROSE 
By  Joseph  Mary  Plunkett 

I  SEE  His  blood  upon  the  rose 

And  in  the  stars  the  glory  of  His  eyes, 

His  Body  gleams  amid  eternal  snows, 
His  tears  fall  from  the  skies. 

I  see  His  face  in  every  flower; 

The  thunder  and  the  singing  of  the  birds 
Are  but  His  voice — and  carven  by  His  power 

Rocks  are  His  written  words. 

All  pathways  by  His  feet  are  worn, 

His  strong  heart  stirs  the  ever-beating  sea, 

His  crown  of  thorns  is  twined  with  every  thorn. 
His  cross  is  every  tree. 


THE  STARS  SANG  IN.  GOD'S  GARDEN 

By  Joseph  Mary  Plunkett 

The  stars  sang  in  God's  garden; 
The  stars  are  the  birds  of  God ; 
The  night-time  is  God's  harvest. 
Its  fruits  are  the  words  of  God. 

God  ploughed  His  fields  at  morning, 
God  sowed  His  seed  at  noon, 
God  reaped  and  gathered  in  His  com 
With  the  rising  of  the  moon. 


'75  IT  NOTHING  TO  YOU?"  203 

The  sun  rose  up  at  midnight, 

The  sun  rose  red  as  blood, 

It  showed  the  Reaper,  the  dead  Christ, 

Upon  His  cross  of  wood. 

For  many  live  that  one  may  die. 
And  one  must  die  that  many  live — 
The  stars  are  silent  in  the  sky 
Lest  my  poor  songs  be  fugitive. 


"IS  IT  NOTHING  TO  YOU?" 
By  May  Probyn 

We  were  playing  on  the  green  together, 

My  sweetheart  and  I — 
Oh,  so  heedless  in  the  gay  June  weather. 

When  the  word  went  forth  that  we  must  die. 
Oh,  so  merrily  the  balls  of  amber 

And  of  ivory  tossed  we  to  the  sky. 
While  the  word  went  forth  in  the  King's  chamber. 

That  we  both  must  die. 

Oh,  so  idly,  straying  through  the  pleasaunce. 

Plucked  we  here  and  there 
Fruit  and  bud,  while  in  the  royal  presence 

The  King's  son  was  casting  from  his  hair 
Glory  of  the  wreathen  gold  that  crowned  it, 

And,  ungirding  all  his  garment  fair, 
Flinging  by  the  jewelled  clasp  that  bound  it. 

With  his  feet  made  bare, 


204  THE  BEES  OF  MYDDLETON  MANOR 

Down  the  myrtled  stairway  of  the  palace, 

Ashes  on  his  head, 
Came  he,  through  the  rose  and  citron  alleys^ 

In  the  rough  sark  of  sackcloth  habited. 
And  in  a  hempen  halter — oh!  we  jested. 

Lightly,  and  we  laughed  as  he  was  led 
To  the  torture,  while  the  bloom  we  breasted 

Where  the  grapes  grew  red. 

Oh,  so  sweet  the  birds,  when  he  was  dying, 

Piped  to  her  and  me — 
Is  no  room  this  glad  June  day  for  sighing — 

He  is  dead,  and  she  and  I  go  free ! 
When  the  sun  shall  set  on  all  our  pleasure 

We  will  mourn  him — ^What,  so  you  decree 
We  are  heartless? — Nay,  but  in  what  measure 

Do  you  more  than  we? 


THE  BEES  OF  MYDDLETON  MANOR 
17th  Century 

By  May  Probyn 

Buzzing,  buzzing,  buzzing,  my  golden-belted  bees : 
My    little    son    was    seven   years    old — the    mint-flowei 
touched  his  knees; 

Yellow  were  his  curly  locks; 

Yellow  were  his  stocking-clocks; 
His  plaything  of  a  sword  had  a  diamond  in  its  hilt ; 

Where  the  garden  beds  lay  sunny. 

And  the  bees  were  making  honey, 
"For  Gocl  and  the  king — ^to  arms!  to  arms!"  the  day  Ion'; 
would  he  lilt. 


THE  BEES  OF  MYDDLETON  MANOR  205 

Smock'd  in  lace  and  flowered  brocade,  my  pretty  son  of 

seven 
Wept  sore  because  the  kitten  died,  and  left  the  charge 
uneven. 
"I  head  one  battalion,  mother — 
Kitty,"  sobbed  he,  "led  the  other! 
And  v^hen  we  reach'd  the  bee-hive  bench 
We  used  to  halt  and  storm  the  trench: 
If  we  could  plant  our  standard  here, 
With  all  the  bees  a-buzzing  near, 
And  fly  the  colors  safe  from  sting, 
The  town  was  taken  for  the  king!" 
Flirting  flitting   over  the  thyme,  by  bees   with   yellow 

band — 
My  little  son  of  seven  came  close,  and  clipp'd  me  by 
the  hand; 
A  wreath  of  mourning  cloth  was  wound 
His  small  left  arm  and  sword-hilt  round, 
And  on  the  thatch  of  every  hive  a  whisp  of  black  was 

bound. 
"Sweet  mother,  we  must  tell  the  bees,  or  they  will  swarm 

away: 
Ye  little  bees !"  he  called,  "draw  nigh,  and  hark  to  what 

I  say, 
And  make  us  golden  honey  still  for  our  white  wheaten 
bread, 
Though  never  more 
We  rush  on  war 
With  Kitty  at  our  head : 
Who'll  give  the  toast 
When  swords  are  cross'd, 
Now  Kitty  lieth  dead  ?" 


206  THE  BEES  OF  MYDDLETON  MANOR 

Buzzing,  buzzing,  buzzing,  my  bees  of  yellow  girth: 

My  son  of  seven  changed  his  mood,  and  clasp'd  me  in 
his  mirth. 

"Sweet  mother,  when  I  grow  a  man  and  fall  on  battle- 
field," 

He  cried,  and  down  in  the  daisied  grass  upon  one  knee 
he  kneel'd, 

"I  charge  thee,  come  and  tell  the  bees  how  I  for  the 
king  lie  dead ; 

And  thou  shalt  never  lack  fine  honey  for  thy  wheaten 
bread!" 

Flitting,  flitting,  flitting,  my  busy  bees,  alas! 
No  footsteps  of  my  soldier  son  came  clinking  through 
the  grass. 

Thrice  he  kiss'd  me  for  farewell; 

And  far  on  the  stone  his  shadow  fell; 
He  buckled  spurs  and  sword-belt  on,  as  the  sun  began 

to  stoop. 
Set  foot  in  stirrup,  and  sprang  to  horse,  and  rode  to 
join  his  troop. 

To  the  west  he  rode,  where  the  winds  were  at  play. 

And  Monmouth's  army  mustering  lay; 

Where  Bridgewater  flew  her  banner  high. 

And  gave  up  her  keys,  when  the  Duke  came  by ; 

And  the  maids  of  Taunton  paid  him  court 

With  colors  their  own  white  hands  had  wrought; 

And  red  as  a  field,  where  blood  doth  run, 

Sedgemoor  blazed  in  the  setting  sun. 

Broider'd  sash  and  clasp  of  gold,  my  soldier  son,  alas ! 
The  mint  was  all  in  flower,  and  the  clover  in  the  grass : 
"With  every  bed 


THE  BEES  OF  MY  DD  LET  ON  MANOR  207 

In  bloom,"  I  said, 
"What  further  lack  the  bees, 

That  they  buzz  so  loud, 

Like  a  restless  cloud, 
Among  the  orchard  trees?" 
No  voice  in  the  air,  from  Sedgemoor  field, 
Moan'd  out  how  Grey  and  the  horse  had  reel'd; 
Met  me  no  ghost,  with  haunting  eyes, 
That  westward  pointed  'mid  its  sighs. 
And  pull'd  apart  a  bloody  vest, 
And  show'd  the  sword-gash  in  his  breast. 

Empty  hives,  and  flitting  bees,  and  sunny  morning  hours ; 
I  snipp'd  the  blossom'd  lavender,  and  the  pinks,  and  the 
gillyflowers ; 
No  petal  trembled  in  my  hold — 
I  saw  not  the  dead  stretched  stark  and  cold 
On  the  trampled  turf  at  the  shepherd's  door. 
In  the  cloak  and  the  doublet  Monmouth  wore, 
With  Monmouth's  scarf  and  headgear  on, 
And  the  eyes,  not  clos'd,  of  my  soldier  son ; 
I  knew  not  how,  ere  the  cocks  did  crow,  the  fight  was 

fought  in  the  dark. 
With  naught  for  guide  but  the  enemy's  guns,  when  the 

flint  flash'd  out  a  spark, 
Till,  routed  at  first  sound  of  fire,  the  cavalry  broke  and 

fled, 
And  the  hoofs  struck  dumb,  where  they  spurn'd  the  slain, 

and  the  meadow  stream  ran  red ; 
I  saw  not  the  handful  of  horsemen  spur  through  the 

dusk,  and  out  of  sight. 
My  soldier  son  at  the  Duke's  left  hand,  aiid  Grey  thgt 
rode  pn  his  fight. 


208  THE  BEES  OF  MYDDLETON  MANOR 

Buzzing,  buzzing,  buzzing,  my  honey-making  bees, 
They  left  the  musk,  and  the  marigolds  and  the  scented 

faint  sweet  peas; 
They  gather'd  in  a  darkening  cloud,  and  sway'd,   and 

rose  to  fly; 
A  blackness  on  the  summer  blue,  they  swept  across  the 

sky. 
Gaunt   and   ghastly   with   gaping   wounds — (my   soldier 

son,  alas!) 
Footsore  and  faint,  the  messenger  came  halting  through 

the  grass. 
The  wind  went  by  and  shook  the  leaves — the  mint-stalk 

shed  its  flower — 
And  I  miss'd  the  murmuring  round  the  hives,  and  my 
boding  heart  beat  slower. 
His  soul  we  cheer'd  with  meat  and  wine; 
With  woman's  craft  and  balsam  fine 
We  bathed  his  hurts,  and  bound  them  soft, 
While  west  the  wind  played  through  the  croft, 
And  the  low  sun  dyed  the  pinks  blood  red, 
And,  straying  near  the  mint-'flower  shed, 
A  wild  bee  wantoned  o'er  the  bed. 

He  told  how  my  son,  at  the  shepherd's  door,  kept  watch 
in  Monmouth's  clothes, 

While  Monmouth  donned  the  shepherd's  frock,  in  hope 
to  cheat  his  foes. 
A  couple  of  troopers  spied  him  stand. 
And  bade  him  yield  to  the  king's  command: 
"Surrender,  thou  rebel  as  good  as  dead, 
A  price  is  set  on  thy  traitor  head!" 
My  soldier  son,  with  secret  smile, 
Held  both  at  bay  for  a  little  while, 


THE  BEES  OF  MYDDLETON  MANOR  209 

Dealt  them  such  death  blow  as  he  fell, 
Neither  was  left  the  tale  to  tell; 
With  dying  eyes  that  asked  no  grace, 
They  stared  on  him  for  a  minute's  space. 
And  felt  that  it  wa-s  not  Monmouth's  face. 
Crimsoned  through   was   Monmouth's  cloak,   when  the 

soldier  dropped  at  their  side — 
"Those  knaves  will  carry  no  word,"  he  said,  and  he 

smiled  in  his  pain,  and  died. 
"Two  days,"  told  the  messenger,  "did  we  lie 
Hid  in  the  fields  of  peas  and  rye. 
Hid  in  the  ditch  of  brake  and  sedge. 
With  the  enemy's  scouts  down  every  hedge. 
Till  Grey  was  seized,  and  Monmouth  seized,  that  under 

the  fern  did  crouch. 
Starved  and  haggard,  and  all  unshaved,  with  a  few  raw 
peas  in  his  pouch." 

No  music  soundeth  in  my  ears,  but  a  passing  bell  that  tolls 
For  gallant  lords  with  head  on  block — sweet   Heaven 
receive  their  souls! 
And  a  mound,  unnamed,  in  Sedgemoor  grass, 
That  laps  my  soldier  son,  alas! 
The  bloom  is  shed — 
The  bees  are  fled — 
Middleton  luck  it's  done  and  dead. 


210  A  LEGEND 

A  LEGEND 
By  Adelaide  Anne  Procter 

I 

The  Monk  was  preaching:  strong  his  earnest  word, 
From  the  abundance  of  his  heart  he  spoke, 

And  the  flame  spread, — in  every  soul  that  heard 
Sorrow  and  love  and  good  resolve  awoke: — 

The  poor  lay  Brother,  ignorant  and  old. 
Thanked  God  that  he  had  heard  such  words  of  gold. 

II 

"Still  let  the  glory,  Lord,  be  thine  alone," — 

So  prayed  the  Monk,  his  heart  absorbed  in  praise: 

"Thine  be  the  glory:  if  my  hands  have  sown 
The  harvest  ripened  in  Thy  mercy's  rays. 

It  was  Thy  blessing,  Lord,  that  made  my  word 
Bring  light  and  love  to  every  soul  that  heard. 

Ill 

"O  Lord,  I  thank  Thee  that  my  feeble  strength 
Has  been  so  blest;  that  sinful  hearts  and  cold 

Were  melted  at  my  pleading, — knew  at  length 
How  sweet  Thy  service  and  how  safe  Thy  fold: 

While  souls  that  loved  Thee  saw  before  them  rise 
Still  holier  heights  of  loving  sacrifice." 

IV 

So  prayed  the  Monk:  when  suddenly  he  heard 
An  Angel  speaking  thus :  "Know,  O  my  Son, 
The  words  had  all  been  vain,  but  hearts  were  stirred, 


THE  SACRED  HEART  211 

And  saints  were  edified,  and  sinners  won, 
By  his,  the  poor  lay  Brother's  humble  aid 
Who  sat  upon  the  pulpit  stair  and  prayed." 


THE  SACRED  HEART 
By  Adelaide  Anne  Procter 

What  wouldst  thou  have,  O  soul, 

Thou  weary  soul? 
Lo!     I  have  sought  for  rest 
On  the  Earth's  heaving  breast, 

From  pole  to  pole. 
Sleep — I  have  been  with  her, 

But  she  gave  dreams; 
Death — nay,  the  rest  he  gives 

Rest  only  seems. 
Fair  nature  knows  it  not — 

The  grass  is  growing; 
The  blue  air  knows  it  not — 

The  winds  are  blowing : 
Not  in  the  changing  sky, 

The  stormy  sea, 
Yet  somewhere  in  God's  wide  world 

Rest  there  must  be. 
Within  thy  Saviour's  Heart 

Place  all  thy  care. 
And  learn,  O  weary  soul, 

Thy  Rest  is  there. 

What  wouldst  thou,  trembling  soul? 
Strength  for  the  strife, — 


212  THE  SACRED  HEART 

Strength  for  this  fiery  war 

That  we  call  Life. 
Fears  gather  thickly  round; 

Shadowy  foes, 
Like  unto  armed  men, 

Around  me  close. 
What  am  I,  frail  and  poor, 

When  griefs  arise? 
No  help  from  the  weak  earth, 

Or  the  cold  skies. 
Lo !  I  can  find  no  guards, 

No  weapons  borrow; 
Shrinking,  alone  I  stand, 

With  mighty  sorrow. 
Courage,  thou  trembling  soul, 

Grief  thou  must  bear. 
Yet  thou  canst  find  a  strength 

Will  match  despair; 
Within  thy  Saviour's  Heart — 

Seek  for  it  there. 

What  wouldst  thou  have,  sad  soul. 

Oppressed  with  grief? — 
Comfort:  I  seek  in  vain, 

Nor  find  relief. 
Nature,  all  pitiless, 

Smiles  on  my  pain; 
I  ask  my  fellow-men. 

They  give  disdain. 
I  asked  the  babbling  streams, 

But  they  flowed'  on ; 
I  asked  the  wise  and  good, 

But  they  gave  none. 


THE  SACRED  HEART  213 

Though  I  have  asked  the  stars. 

Coldly  they  shine. 
They  are  too  bright  to  know 

Grief  such  as  mine. 
I  asked  for  comfort  still, 

And  I  found  tears, 
And  I  have  sought  in  vain 

Long,  weary  years. 
Listen,  thou  mournful  soul. 
Thy  pain  shall  cease; 
Deep  in  His  sacred  Heart 

Dwells  joy  and  peace. 

Yes,  in  that  Heart  divine 

The  Angels  bright 
Find,  through  eternal  years. 

Still  new  delight. 
From  thence  his  constancy 

The  martyr  drew, 
And  there  the  virgin  band 

Their  refuge  knew. 
There,  racked  by  pain  without. 

And  dread  within, 
How  many  souls  have  found 

Heaven's  bliss  begin. 
Then  leave  thy  vain  attempts 

To  seek  for  peace; 
The  world  can  never  give 

One  soul  release; 
But  in  thy  Saviour's  Heart 

Securely  dwell, 
No  pain  can  harm  thee,  hid 

In  that  sweet  cell. 


314  THE   ANNUNCIATION 

Then  fly,  O  coward  soul, 

Delay  no  more: 
What  words  can  speak  the  joy 

For  thee  in  store? 
What  smiles  of  earth  can  tell 

Of  peace  like  thine? 
Silence  and  tears  are  best 

For  things  divine. 


THE  ANNUNCIATION 

By  Adelaide  Anne  Procter 


How  pure,  and  frail,  and  white, 

The  snowdrops  shine! 
Gather  a  garland  bright 

For  Mary's  shrine. 

For,  born  of  winter  snows, 

These  fragile  flowers 
Are  gifts  to  our  fair  Queen 

From  Spring's  first  hours. 

For  on  this  blessed  day 

She  knelt  at  prayer; 
When,  lo!  before  her  shone 

An  Angel  fair. 

"Hail,  Mary !"  thus  he  cried, 

With  reverent  fear: 
She,  with  sweet  wondering  eyes, 

Marvelled  to  hear. 


THE   ANNUNCIATION  315 

Be  still,  ye  clouds  of  Heaven ! 

Be  silent,  Earth! 
And  hear  an  Angel  tell 

Of  Jesus'  birth, 

While  she,  whom  Gabriel  hails 

As  full  of  grace, 
Listens  with  humble  faith 

In  her  sweet  face. 

Be  stilll, — Pride,  War,  and  Pomp, 

Vain  Hopes,  vain  Fears, 
For  now  an  Angel  speaks, 

And  Mary  hears. 

"Hail,  Mary !"  lo,  it  rings 

Through  ages  on ; 
"Hail  Mary!"  it  shall  sound, 

Till  Time  is  done 

"Hail,  Mary !"  infant  lips 

Lisp  it  to-day; 
"Hail,  Mary!"  with  faint  smile 

The  dying  say. 

"Hail,  Mary!"  many  a  heart 

Broken  with  grief. 
In  that  angelic  prayer 

Has  found  relief. 

And  many  a  half-lost  soul. 

When  turned  at  bay, 
With  those  triumphant  words 

Has  won  the  day. 


216  OUR  DAILY  BREAD 

"Hail,  Mary,  Queen  of  Heaven !" 

Let  ns  repeat, 
And  place  our  snowdrop  wreath 

Here  at  her  feet. 


OUR  DAILY  BREAD 
By  Adelaide  Anne  Procter 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread, 

O  God,  the  bread  of  strength! 
For  we  have  learnt  to  know 

How  weak  we  are  at  length. 
As  children  we  are  weak, 

As  children  must  be  fed; — 
Give  us  Thy  Grace,  O  Lord, 

To  be  our  daily  Bread, 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread: — 

The  bitter  bread  of  grief. 
We  sought  earth's  poisoned  feasts 

For  pleasure  and  relief; 
We  sought  her  deadly  fruits, 

But  now,  O  God,  instead, 
We  ask  thy  healing  grief 

To  be  our  daily  Bread. 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread 
To  cheer  our  fainting  soul ; 

The  feast  of  comfort,  Lord, 
And  peace,  to  make  us  whole: 


MY  MARYLAND  217 

For  we  are  sick  of  tears, 

The  useless  tears  we  shed;— 
Now  give  us  comfort,  Lord, 

To  be  our  daily  Bread. 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread, 

The  Bread  of  Angels,  Lord, 
For  us,  so  many  times, 

Broken,  betrayed,  adored: 
His  Body  and  His  Blood; — 

The  feast  that  Jesus  spread: 
Give  Him — our  life,  our  all — 

To  be  our  daily  Bread! 


MY  MARYLAND 

By  James  Ryder  Randall 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Hark  to  an  exiled  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 


^18  MY  MARYLAND 

Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 
Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust. 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust. 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 
With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 
She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain, — 
"Sic  semper!"  't  is  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


MY  MARYLAND  319 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 
But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek. 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 
Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl. 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 
She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb; 
Huzza!  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum! 
She  breathes!     She  burns!     She'll  come!    She'll  cornel 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


220  MAGDALEN 

MAGDALEN 
By  James  Ryder  Randall 

The  Hebrew  girl,  with  flaming  brow. 

The  banner-blush  of  shame, 
Sinks  at  the  sinless  Saviour's  Knees 

And  dares  to  breathe  His  name. 
From  the  full  fountain  of  her  eyes 

The  lava-globes  are  roll'd — 
They  wash  His  feet;  she  spurns  them  oflE 

With  her  ringlet-scarf  of  gold. 

The  Meek  One  feels  the  eloquence 

Of  agonizing  prayer, 
The  burning  tears,  the  suppliant  face. 

The  penitential  hair; 
And  when,  to  crown  her  brimming  woe, 

The  ointment  box  is  riven — 
"Rise,  daughter,  rise!     Much  hast  thou  loved. 

Be  all  thy  sins  forgiven !" 

Dear  God!    The  prayer  of  good  and  pure. 

The  canticles  of  light, 
Enrobe  Thy  throne  with  gorgeous  skies. 

As  incense  in  Thy  sight; 
May  the  shivered  vase  of  Magdalen 

Soothe  many  an  outcast's  smart. 
Teaching  what  fragrant  pleas  may  spring 

From  out  a  broken  heart! 


LE  REPOS  IN  EGYPTE:  THE  SPHINX  231 

WHY  THE  ROBIN'S  BREAST  WAS  RED 
By  James  Ryder  Randall 

The  Saviour,  bowed  beneath  His  Cross,  climbed  up  the 

dreary  hill, 
And  from  the  agonizing  wreath  ran  many  a  crimson  rill ; 
The  cruel  Roman  thrust  Him  on  with  unrelenting  hand, 
Till,  staggering  slowly  'mid  the  crowd,  He  fell  upon  the 

sand, 

A  little  bird  that  warbled  near,  that  memorable  day, 
Flitted  around  and  strove  to  wrench  one  single  thorn 

away; 
The  cruel  spike  impaled  his  breast, — and  thus  'tis  sweetly 

said, 
The  robin  has  his  silver  vest  incarnadined  with  red. 

Ah,  Jesu !    Jesu !    Son  of  man !  my  dolor  and  my  sighs 
Reveal  the  lesson  taught  by  this  winged  Ishmael  of  the 

skies. 
I,  in  the  palace  of  delight  or  cavern  of  despair. 
Have    plucked   no    thorns    from   Thy   dear   brow,    but 

planted  thousands  there! 

LE  REPOS  IN  EGYPTE:     THE  SPHINX 
By  Agnes  Repplier 

All  day  I  watch  the  stretch  of  burning  sand; 

All  night  I  brood  beneath  the  golden  stars; 
Amid  the  silence  of  a  desolate  land, 

No  touch  of  bitterness  my  reverie  mars. 


223  ANDROMEDA 

Built  by  the  proudest  of  a  kingly  line. 

Over  my  head  the  centuries  fly  fast; 
The  secrets  of  the  mighty  dead  are  mine; 

I  hold  the  key  of  a  forgotten  past. 
Yet,  ever  hushed  into  a  rapturous  dream, 

I  see  again  that  night.     A  halo  mild 
Shone  from  the  liquid  moon.    Beneath  her  beam 

Traveled  a  tired  young  Mother  and  the  Child. 
Within  mine  arms  she  slumbered,  and  alone 

I  watched  the  Infant.    At  my  feet  her  guide 
Lay  stretched  o'er-wearied.    On  my  breast  of  stone 

Rested  the  Crucified. 

ANDROMEDA 

By  James  Jeffrey  Roche 

They  chained  her  fair  young  body  to  the  cold  and  cruel 

stone ; 
The  beast  begot  of  sea  and  slime  had  marked  her  for 

his  own; 
The  callous  world  beheld  the  wrong,  and  left  her  there 

alone. 
Base  caitiffs  who  belied  her,  false  kinsmen  who  denied 

her, 

Ye  left  her  there  alone! 

My  Beautiful,  they  left  thee  in  thy  peril  and  thy  pain; 

The  night  that  hath  no  morrow  was  brooding  on  the 
main: 

But,  lo !  a  light  is  breaking  of  hope  for  thee  again ; 

'T  is  Perseus's  sword  a^flaming,  thy  dawn  of  day  pro- 
claiming 

Across  the  western  main. 

O  Ireland !    O  my  country !  he  comes  to  break  thy  chain ! 


NATURE  THE  FALSE  GODDESS  233 

NATURE  THE  FALSE  GODDESS 
By  James  Jeffrey  Roche 

The  vilest  work  of  vilest  man, 

The  cup  that  drugs,  the  sword  that  slays. 

The  purchased  kiss  of  courtesan, 

The  lying  tongue  of  blame  or  praise, 

The  cobra's  fang,  the  tiger's  tongue. 
The  python's  murderous  embrace — 

The  wrath  of  any  living  thing 
A  man  may  fear  but  bravely  face. 

But  thou,  cold  Mother,  knowest  naught 

Of  love,  of  hate,  or  joy,  or  woe ; 
Thy  bounties  come  to  man  unsought, 

Thy  curses  fall  on  friend  and  foe. 

Thou  bearest  balm  upon  thy  breath, 

Or  sowest  poison  in  the  air; 
And  if  man  reapeth  life  or  death, 

Thou  dost  not  know,  thou  dost  not  care. 

Thou  art  God's  instrument  of  fate, 

Obedient,  mighty,  soulless,  blind, 
No  demon  to  propitiate. 

No  deity  in  love  enshrined. 

Let  him  who  turns  from  God  away 

To  Bel  or  Moloch  bend  the  knee| 
Defile  his  soul  to  wood  or  clay, 

Or  thrill  with  Vopdoo's  ecstasy. 


224  ■      THREE  DOVES 

Seek  any  fetich  undivine, 
Be  any  superstition's  thrall, 

From  Heaven  or  Hell  will  come  a  sign; 
But  thou  alone  art  deaf  to  all. 


THREE  DOVES 

By  James  Jeffrey  Roche 

Seaward,  at  morn,  my  doves  flew  free; 
At  eve  they  circled  back  to  me. 
The  first  was  Faith ;  the  second,  Hope ; 
The  third,  the  whitest,  Charity. 

Above  the  plunging  surges  play 
Dream-like  they  hovered,  day  by  day. 
At  last  they  turned,  and  bore  to  me 
Green  signs  of  peace  thro'  nightfall  gray, 

No  shore  forlorn,  no  loveliest  land 
Their  gentle  eye  had  left  unscanned, 
'Mid  hues  of  twilight-heliotrope 
Or  daybreak  fires  by  heaven-breath  fanned. 

Quick  visions  of  celestial  grace, — 

Hither  they  waft,  from  earth's  broad  space, 

Kind  thoughts  for  all  humanity. 

They  shine  with  radiance  from  God's  face. 

Ah,  since  my  heart  they  choose  for  home. 

Why  loose  them, — forth  again  to  roam? 

Yet  look;  they  rise  with  loftier  scope 

T^cy  wheel  in  flight  toward  Heaven's  pure  dome. 


AVE  MARIA  225 


Fly,  messengers  that  find  no  rest 
Save  in  such  toil  as  makes  man  blest! 
Your  home  is  God's  immensity; 
We  hold  you  but  at  His  behest. 


THE  WAY]  OF  THE  WORLD 
By  James  Jeffrey  Roche 

The  hands  of  the  King  are  soft  and  fair 

They  never  knew  labor's  strain 
The  hands  of  the  Robber  redly  wear 

The  bloody  brand  of  Cain. 
But  the  hands  of  the  Man  are  hard  and  scarred 

With  the  scars  of  toil  and  pain. 

The  slaves  of  Pilate  have  washed  his  hands 

As  white  as  a  kings  might  joe. 
Barrabas  with  wrists  unfettered  stands 

For  the  world  has  made  him  free. 
But  Thy  palms  toil-worn  by  nails  are  torn, 

O  Christ,  on  Calvary. 

AVE  MARIA 
By  John  Jerome  Rooney 

Lady,  thy  soldier  I  would  be. 

This  day  I  choose  thy  shield, 
And  go,  thrice-armored  for  the  fight. 

Forth  to  the  world's  wide  field. 


326  AVE  MARIA 

There  I  shall  meet  the  dark  allies, 
The  Flesh,  the  Fiend,  the  World, 

And  fiercely  shall  their  darts  of  fire 
Upon  my  heart  be  hurled. 

But  I  will  raise  my  buckler  strong 
Betwixt  me  and  the  foe, 

And,  with  the  spirit's  flaming  sword, 
fShall  give  them  blow  for  blow. 

Lady,  thy  sailor  I  would  be, 
This  day  I  sign  my  name 

To  sail  the  high  seas  of  the  earth 
For  glory  of  thy  fame. 

lThe  tempest  may  besiege  my  bark. 

The  pirate  lie  in  wait: 
The  perils  of  the  monstrous  deep 

May  tempt  o'erwhelming  fate: 

Yet,  wheresoe'er  my  ship  may  steer 

Upon  the  waters  wide, 
Thy  name  shall  be  my  compass  sure. 

Thy  star  my  midnight  guide. 

Thy  poet,  Lady,  I  would  be 
To  sing  thy  peerless  praise; 

Thy  loyal  bard,  Fd  bring  to  thee 
Heart-music  from  all  lays. 

Soft  melody,  outpoured  in  June 
By  God's  dear  feathered  throng, 

Would  mingle  with  the  organ's  roll 
To  glorify  my  song; 


REVELATION  227 

And  Dante's  voice  and  Petrarch's  strain 

And  Milton's  matchless  line 
Would  lend  to  my  poor  minstrel  note 

A  harmony  divine. 

Lady,  I  choose  to  be  thy  son ; 

For  Mother  thee  I  choose; 
O,  for  thy  sweet  and  holy  Child, 

Do  not  my  claim  refuse! 

Alone  and  motherless  am  I : 

Tho'  strong,  I  long  for  rest — 
The  thunder  of  the  world's  applause 

Is  not  a  mother's  breast. 

Ave  Maria!     Shield  us  all. 

Thy  sons  we  choose  to  be. 
Mother  of  grace,  we  raise  our  hearts, 

Our  hearts,  our  love  to  thee! 


REVELATION 

"And  I  saw  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth:  for  the  first  heaven 
and  the  first  earth  were  passed  away" — Revelation  XXI :1 

By  John  Jerome  Rooney 

The  Lord  God  said  to  His  angel:  "Let  the  old  things 

pass  away. 
They  have  heaped  the  earth  with  slaughter  their   sin 

obscures  the  day. 
Roll  up  the  night  on  a  curtain:  let  the  stars  fade  one  by 

one: 


228  REVELATION 

Out  of  the  face  of  the  heavens  my  anger  shall  blot  the 

sun. 
For  the  man  I  made  and  breathed  on,  filled  with  my 

breath  of  breath, 
Hath  sown  the  seas  with  hatred,  his  skies  are  dark  with 

death. 
The  babe  is  slain  at  the  bosom,  the  babe  who  beholds 

my  face; 
A  welter  of  woe  he  leaves  it, — ^the  dream  of  my  love 

and  grace. 

"Love  was  the  dower  I  gave  him,  love  the  light  of  his 
days, 

Love  the  core  of  his  being,  love,  and  the  upward  gaze. 

Hate  is  the  meat  he  feeds  on,  hate  is  his  daily  bread : 

His  drink  is  the  blood  O'f  his  brother,  whom  Cain  hath 
stricken  dead. 

I  said  to  the  man  in  the  Garden :  'Where  is  thy  brother, 
Cain?' 

'Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?'  now  comes  the  answer 
again." 

The  Lord  God  said  to  His  angel:  "This  Thing  is  ac- 
cursed and  a  lie: 

It  hath  sinned  from  the  'Law  I  gave  it,  and  surely  it 
shall  die." 

"The  Beasts  of  the  field  are  patient,  the  birds  rejoice  in 

song,— 
But  what  is  this  Thing  of  blood-lust,  and  where  does  it 

belong? 
Lo,  I  shall  establish  a  judgment :  Let  the  old  things  pass 

away: 


MARQUETTE  ON  SHORES  OF  MISSISSIPPI      229 

They  have  heaped  the  fields  with  slaughter :  their  sin 
defiles  the  day. 

They  have  laid  on  the  weak  sore  burdens,  on  the  just, 
their  whips  and  ban : 

For  a  handful  of  crimsoned  silver  they  have  kissed  the 
Son  of  Man. 

Roll  back  the  scroll  of  the  heavens;  from  out  of  the 
womb  of  birth 

Come  forth  new  heavens  untainted;  come  forth,  re- 
newed, the  Earth!" 

MARQUETTE  ON  THE  SHORES  OF  THE 
MISSISSIPPI 

On  seeing  the  original  manuscript  map  of  the  Mississippi  River 
by  its  discoverer,  Father  Marquette 

By  John  Jerome  Rooney 

Here,  in  the  midnight  of  the  solemn  wood, 
He  heard  a  roar  as  of  a  mighty  wind, — 
The  onward  rush  of  waters  unconfined 

Trampling  in  legions  thro'  the  solitude. 

Then  lo !  before  him  swept  the  conquering  flood, 
Free  as  the  freedom  of  the  truth-strong  mind 
Which  hills  of  Doubt  could  meither  hide  nor  bind, 

Which,  all  in  vain,  the  valley  mounds  withstood ! 

With  glowing  eye  he  saw  the  prancing  tide 
With  yellow  mane  rush  onward  thro'  the  night 
Into  the  vastness  he  had  never  trod : 
Nor  dreamt  of  conquest  of  that  kingdom  wide 
As  down  the  flood  his  spirit  took  its  flight 
Seeking  the  long-lost  children  of  his  God! 


330  THE  EMPIRE  BUILDER 

THE  EMPIRE  BUILDER 

(On  the  death  of  a  Catholic  gentleman) 

By  John  Jerome  Rooney 


This  is  the  song  of  the  Empire  Builder, 

Who  out  of  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
Thro'  travail  of  war  and  of  carnage 

Brings  strange,  new  realms  to  birth. 

This  is  the  boast  of  the  Empire  Builder: 

Give  heed  to  the  deeds  of  his  hands 
And  scorn  thou  not  the  glory  he  hath 

In  his  gold  and  his  wasted  lands. 

He  hath  counted  his  neighbors'  cattle 

With  the  cold,  gray  eye  of  greed: 
He  hath  marked  for  his  own  the  fields  of  wheat 

Where  he  never  had  sown  the  seed: 

The  vine-clad  cot  by  the  hillside. 

Where  the  farmer's  children  play, — 

"This  shall  fit  in  my  plan,"  he  said; 
"What  use  for  such  as  they?" 

And  so,  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 

He  brought  his  armed  men. 
And  where  had  shone  the  clustering  grapes 

There  stretched  a  waste  again. 

Homeless,  the  children  wandered 
Thro'  the  fields  their  father  won: 


THE  EMPIRE  BUILDER  231 

No  more  shall  they  feel  his  clasp  and  kiss — • 
Aye,  never  beneath  the  sun. 

Vex,  vex  not  the  Empire  Builder, 

Nor  babble  of  Mercy's  shield; 
Hath  he  not  his  vaster  issue — 

The  linking  of  field  to  field? 

Hath  he  not  noted  the  boundary 

That  lies  'twixt  "mine  and  thine"? 
Hath  he  not  said,  "  'Twere  better  for  thee 

If  thine  henceforth  be  mine"? 

And  so  doth  the  Empire  Builder, 

From  out  of  the  ends  of  the  earth. 
Thro'  travail  of  war  and  of  carnage 

Bring  strange,  new  realms  to  birth — 

Realms  builded  on  broken  hearthstones. 

The  triumph  of  Rapine's  hour — 
That  one  may  boast  in  the  halls  of  Fame 

And  sit  in  the  seats  of  Power! 


II 

This  Is  the  song  of  the  Empire  Builder, 
Who  built  not  of  wasted  lands, 

But  who  builded  a  kingdom  of  golden  deeds 
And  of  things  not  made  by  hands! 

The  fields  of  the  spirit  were  his  to  roam. 
The  paths  where  the  love-flowers  grew: 

He  felt  the  breath  of  the  spirits'  spring 
In  every  wind  that  blew: 


232  THE  EMPIRE  BUILDER 

It  came  not  laden  with  dying  groans 

And  homeless  orphans'  cries: 
It  blew  from  the  mountains  of  the  Lord 

And  the  fields  of  Paradise. 

This  is  the  boast  of  the  Empire  Builder 
Who  built  not  of  mouldering  clay: 

That  the  kingdom  He  built,  not  made  by  hands, 
Shall  never  pass  away! 

The  mind  cannot  measure  its  boundaries, 

All  Space  is  its  outer  gate: 
It  is  broader  than  ever  a  man  conceived 

And  more  durable  than  Fate. 

This  is  the  Empire  our  brother  built, 

In  His  little  hour  of  Earth, 
Thro'  the  spirit's  travail  of  righteous  deeds 

And  the  spirit's  glad  rebirth. 

He  had  silenced  the  boast  of  the  Empire  Builder, 

With  his  gold  and  wasted  lands, 
By  his  deathless  kingdom  of  golden  deeds 

And  of  things  not  made  by  hands. 

This  is  the  kingdom  our  brother  built: 

It  is  good :  it  hath  sufficed ; — 
For  who  can  measure  the  glory  he  keeps 

With  our  Elder  Brother,  Christ? 


THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  GUNS  333 

THE  MEN  BEHIND  THE  GUNS 
By  John  Jerome  Rooney 

A  CHEER  and  salute  for  the  Admiral,  and  here's  to  the 
Captain  bold, 

And  never  forget  the  Commodore's  debt  when  the  deeds 
of  might  are  told! 

They  stand  to  the  deck  through  the  battle's  wreck  when 
the  great  shells  roar  and  screech — 

And  never  they  fear  when  the  foe  is  near  to  practice 
what  they  preach: 

But  off  with  your  hat  and  three  times  three  for  Colum- 
bia's true-blue  sons. 

The  men  below  who  batter  the  foe — the  men  behind  the 
guns ! 

Oh,  light  and  merry  of  heart  are  they  when  they  swing 
into  port  once  more, 

When,  with  more  than  enough  of  the  "green-backed 
stuff,"  they  start  for  their  leave-o'-shore ; 

And  you'd  think,  perhaps,  that  the  blue-bloused  chaps 
who  loll  along  the  street 

Are  a  tender  bit,  with  salt  on  it,  for  some  fierce  "mus- 
tache" to  eat — 

Some  warrior  bold,  with  straps  of  gold,  who  dazzles  and 
fairly  stuns 

The  modest  worth  of  the  sailor  boys — ^the  lads  who  serve 
the  guns. 

But  say  not  a  word  till  the  shot  Is  heard  that  tells  the 

fight  is  on. 
Till  the  long,  deep  roar  grows  more  and  more  from  the 

^ships  of  "Yank"  and  "Don," 


234      A  THOUGHT  FROM  CARDINAL  NEWMAN  ■ 

Till  over  the  deep  the  tempests  sweep  of  fire  and  burst- 
ing shell, 

And  the  very  air  is  a  mad  Despair  in  the  throes  of  a 
living  hell; 

Then  down,  deep  down,  in  the  mighty  ship,  unseen  by 
the  midday  suns. 

You'll  find  the  chaps  who  are  giving  the  raps — ^the  men 
behind  the  guns! 

Ch,  well  they  know  the  cyclones  blow)  that  they  loose 

from  their  cloud  of  death. 
And  they  know  is  heard  the  thunders-word  their  fierce 

ten-incher  saith! 
The  steel  decks  rock  with  the  lightning  shock,  and  shake 

with  the  great  recoil, 
And  the  sea  grows  red  with  the  blood  of  the  dead  and 

reaches   for  his  spoil — 
But  not  till  the  foe  has  gone  below  or  turns  his  prow  and 

runs 
Shall  the  voice  of  peace  bring  sweet  release  to  the  men 

behind  the  guns! 

A  THOUGHT  FROM  CARDINAL  NEWMAN* 
By  Matthew  Russell,  S.J. 
The  world  shines  bright  for  inexperienced  eyes, 
And  death  seems  distant  to  the  gay  and  strong. 
And  in  the  youthful  heart  proud  fancies  throng, 

*In  the  last  of  his  "Discourses  to  Mixed  Congregations,"  Dr. 
Newman  calls  the  Blesed  Virgin  the  Mother  of  Emanuel,  and 
Bays:  "It  is  the  boast  of  the  Catholic  religion  that  it  has  the 
gift  of  making  the  young  heart  chaste ;  and  why  is  this,  but  that 
it  gives  us  Jesus  for  our  food  an4  Mary  for  our  nursing 
Mother?'' 


THE  CONQUERED   BANNER  235 

And  only  present  good  can  nature  prize. 

How  then  shall  youth  o'er  these  low  vapours  rise, 

And  climb  the  upward  path  so  steep  and  long? 

And  how,  amid  earth's  sights  and  sounds  of  wrong, 
Walk  with  pure  heart  and  face  raised  to  the  skies? 

By  gazing  on  the  Infinitely  Good, 

Whose  love  must  quell,  or  hallow  every  other — 
By  living  in  the  shadow  of  the  Rood, 

For  He  that  hangs  there  is  our  Elder  Brother, 
"Who  dying  gave  to  us  Himself  as  food, 

And  His  own  Mother  as  our  nursing  Mother. 

THE  CONQUERED  BANNER 
By  Abram  J.  Ryan 

Furl  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary ; 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary; 

Furl  it,  fold  it, — it  is  best; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it. 
And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it. 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it: 

Furl  it,  hide  it, — let  it  rest! 

Take  that  Banner  down !  'tis  tattered ; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered, 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh,  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it, 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it, 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh ! 


336  THE  CONQUERED  BANNER 

Furl  that  Banner ! — furl  it  sadly ! 
Once  ten  thousands  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousands  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave ; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever 
Till  that  flag  should  float  forever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave ! 

iFurl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it,  ' 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 
And  that  Banner — it  is  trailing 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it, — • 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it. 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it, 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it; 
And  oh,  wildly  they  deplore  it. 
Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so! 

Furl  that  Banner!    True,  'tis  gory. 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  ,glory. 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story 

Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust! 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages. 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 

Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must 


A  CHILD'S  WISH  237 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly! 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy, 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never; 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, — 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled! 


A  CHILD'S  WISH 
By  Abram  J.  Ryan 

I  WISH  I  were  the  little  key 

That  locks  Love's  Captive  in, 
And  lets  Him  out  to  go  and  free 

A  sinful  heart  from  sin. 

I  wish  I  were  the  little  bell 

That  tinkles  for  the  Host, 
When  God  comes  down  each  day  to  dwell 

With  hearts  He  loves  the  most. 

I  wish  I  were  the  chalice  fair. 
That  holds  the  Blood  of  Love, 

When  every  gleam  lights  holy  prayer 
Upon  its  way  above. 

I  wish  I  were  the  little  flower 
So  near  the  Host's  sweet  face, 

Or  like  the  light  that  half  an  hour 
Burns  on  the  shrine  of  grace. 


238  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  E.  LEE 

I  wish  I  were  the  'altar  where, 
As  on  His  mother's  breast, 

Christ  nestles,  like  a  child,  fore'er 
In  Eucharistic  rest. 

But,  oh,  my  God,  I  wish  the  most 
That  my  poor  heart  may  be 

A  home  all  holy  for  each  Host 
That  comes  in  love  to  me. 


THE  SWORD  OF  ROBERT  LEE 

By  Abram  J.  Ryan 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  pure  and  bright 

Flashed  the  sword  of  Lee! 
Far  in  the  front  of  the  deadly  fight. 
High  o'er  the  brave  in  the  cause  of  Right, 
Its  stainless  sheen,  like  a  beacon  bright, 

Led  us  to  Victory, 

Out  of  its  scabbard,  where,  full  long. 

It  slumbered  peacefully. 
Roused  from  its  rest  by  the  battle's  song. 
Shielding  the  feeble,  smiting  the  strong, 
Guarding  the  right,  avenging  the  wrong, 

Gleamed  the  sword  of  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard,  high  in  air 

Beneath  Virginia's  sky — 
And  they  who  saw  it  gleaming  there, 
And  knew  who  bore  it,  knelt  to  swear 
That  where  that  sword  led  they  would  dare 

To  follow — and  to  die. 


SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC  339 

Out  of  its  scabbard !    Never  hand 

Waved  sword  from  stain  as  free, 
Nor  purer  sword  led  braver  band, 
Nor  braver  bled  for  a  brighter  land, 
Nor  brighter  land  had  a  cause  so  grand. 

Nor  cause  a  chief  like  Lee! 

Forth  from  its  scabbard !     How  we  prayed 

That  sword  might  victor  be ; 
And  when  our  triumph  was  delayed, 
And  many  a  heart  grew  sore  afraid, 
We  still  hoped  on  while  gleamed  the  blade 

Of  noble  Robert  Lee. 

Forth  from  its  scabbard  all  in  vain 

Bright  flashed  the  sword  of  Lee ; 
'Tis  shrouded  now  in  its  sheath  again, 
It  sleeps  the  sleep  of  our  noble  slain. 
Defeated,  yet  without  a  stain, 

Proudly  and  peacefully. 


SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC 
By  Abram  J.  Ryan 

I  WALK  down  the  Valley  of  Silence — 
Down  the  dim  voiceless  Valley — alone! 

And  I  hear  not  the  fall  of  a  footstep 
Around  me,  save  God's  and  my  own; 

And  the  hu'sh  of  my  heart  is  as  holy 
As  hovers  where  angels  have  flown! 


340  SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  voices 
Whose  magic  my  heart  could  not  win; 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  noises 
That  fretted  my  soul  with  their  din; 

Long  ago  was  I  weary  of  places 
Where  I  met  but  the  human — and  sin. 

I  walked  through  the  world  with  the  worldly; 

I  craved  what  the  world  never  gave; 
And  I  said:  "In  the  world,  each  Ideal 

That  shines  like  a  s-tar  on  life's  wave, 
Is  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  the  Real, 

And  sleeps  like  a  dream  in  a  grave.'* 

And  still  did  I  pine  for  the  Perfect, 
And  still  found  the  false  with  the  true; 

I  sought  'mid  the  human  for  heaven, 
And  caught  a  mere  glimpse  of  its  blue; 

And  I  wept  when  the  clouds  of  the  mortal 
Veiled  even  that  glimpse  from  my  view. 

And  I  toiled  on,  heart-tired  of  the  Human; 

And  I  moaned  'mid  the  mazes  of  men; 
Till  I  knelt,  long  ago,  at  an  altar 

And  heard  a  voice  call  me.  Since  then 
I  walk  down  the  Valley  of  Silence 

That  lies  far  beyond  human  ken. 

Do  you  ask  what  I  found  in  the  Valley? 

'Tis  my  trysting-place  with  the  Divine; 
And  I  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Holy, 

And  above  me  a  voice  said:  "Be  mine!" 
And  there  rose  from  the  depths  of  my  spirit 

An  echo — "My  heart  shall  be  thine." 


SONG  OF  THE  MYSTIC  241 

Do  you  ask  how  I  live  in  the  Valley? 

I  weep — and  I  dream — and  I  pray. 
But  my  tears  are  as  sweet  as  the  dewdrops 

That  fall  on  the  roses  in  May; 
And  my  prayers,  like  a  perfume  from  censers, 

Ascendeth  to  God,  night  and  day. 

In  the  hush  of  the  Valley  of  Silence, 

I  dream  all  the  songs  that  I  sing; 
And  the  music  floats  down  the  dim  Valley, 

Till  each  finds  a  word  for  a  wing, 
That  to  men,  like  the  Dove  of  the  Deluge, 

A  message  of  Peace  they  may  bring. 

But  far  on  the  deep  there  are  billows 
That  never  shall  break  on  the  beach; 

And  I  have  heard  songs  in  the  Silence 
That  never  shall  float  into  speech; 

And  I  have  had  dreams  in  the  Valley 
Too  lofty  for  language  to  reach. 

And  I  have  seen  Thoughts  in  the  Valley — 

Ah,  me!  how  my  spirit  was  stirred! 
And  they  wear  holy  veils  on  their  faces. 

Their  footsteps  can  scarcely  be  heard; 
They  pass  through  the  Valley,  like  virgins 

Too  pure  for  the  touch  of  a  word! 

Do  you  ask  me  the  pla-ce  of  the  Valley, 
Ye  hearts  that  are  harrowed  by  Care? 

It  Heth  afar,  between  mountains. 
And  God  and  His  angels  are  there ; 

And  one  is  the  dark  mount  of  Sorrow, 
And  one  the  bright  mountain  of  Prayer. 


242  THE  WIND   ON   THE  HILLS 

MARY,  VIRGIN  AND  MOTHER 
By  E.  Seton 

Oh,  Virgin  Joy  of  all  the  world  art  thou, 

In  whose  white,  fragrant  steps  the  countless  throng 
On  souls  elect  doth  follow  God  with  song: 

Creation's  Queen,  whose  bright  and  holy  brow 

The  multitude  of  Saints,  like  stars,  endow 

With  changeful  splendors,  flashing  far  and  strong: 
The  Maid  unshadow'd  by  the  primal  wrong: 

God's  Lily,  chosen  in  His  shrine  to  bow. 

All  these  thy  glories  are,  and  still  a  grace 

More  high,  more  dread,  and  yet  more  sweet  and  fair, 
Doth  bind  thy  royal  brows,  O  Mary  blest. 
God  called  thee  Mother;  yea,  His  sacred  face 
The  tender  likeness  of  thine  own  doth  wear. 
And  thou  art  ours — we  trust  Him  for  the  rest. 


THE  WIND  ON  THE  HILLS 
By  Dora  Sigerson 

Go  not  to  the  hills  of  Erin 

When  the  night  winds  are  about; 

Put  up  your  bar  and  shutter. 
And  so  keep  the  danger  out. 

For  the  good-folk  whirl  within  it. 
And  they  pull  by  the  hand, 

And  they  push  you  by  the  shoulder, 
Till  you  move  to  their  command. 


THE   WIND  ON  THE  HILLS  243 

And  lo !  you  have  forgotten 

What  you  have  known  of  tears, 
And  you  will  not  remember 

That  the  world  goes  full  of  years; 

A  year  there  is  a  lifetime, 

And  a  second  but  a  day; 
And  an  older  world  will  greet  you 

Each  morn  you  come  away. 

Your  wife  grows  old  with  weeping, 

And  your  children  one  by  one 
Grow  grey  with  nights  of  watching, 

Before  your  dance  is  done. 

And  it  will  chance  some  morning 

You  will  come  home  no  more ; 
Your  wife  sees  but  a  withered  leaf 

In  the  wind  about  the  door. 

And  your  children  will  inherit 

The  unrest  of  the  wind; 
They  shall  seek  some  face  elusive. 

And  some  land  they  never  find. 

When  the  wind  is  loud,  they  sighing 

Go  with  hearts  unsatisfied, 
For  some  joy  beyond  remembrance. 

For  some  memory  denied. 

And  all  your  children's  children. 

They  cannot  sleep  or  rest, 
When  the  wind  is  out  in  Erin 

And  the  sun  is  in  the  West, 


244  BELIEVE  AND  TAKE  HEART 

BELIEVE  AND  TAKE  HEART 

By  John  Lancaster  Spalding 

What  »can  console  for  a  dead  world? 
We  tread  on  dust  which  once  was  life; 
To  nothingness  all  things  are  hurled: 
What  meaning  in  a  hopeless  strife? 

Time's  awful  storm 

Breaks  but  the  form. 

Whatever  comes,  whatever  goes, 
Still  throbs  the  heart  whereiby  we  live; 
The  primal  joys  still  lighten  woes, 
And  time  which  steals  doth  also  give. 

Fear  not,  be  brave: 

God-  can  thee  save. 

The  essential  truth  of  life  remains, 

Its  goodness  and  its  beauty  too, 

Pure  love's  unutterable  gains, 

And  hope  which  trills  us  through  and  through : 

God  has  not  fled. 

Souls  are  not  dead. 

Not  in  most  ancient  Palestine, 
Nor  in  the  lightsome  air  of  Greece, 
Were  human  struggles  more  divine, 
More  blessed  with  guerdon  of  increase: 

Take  thou  thy  stand 

In  the  workers'  band. 


AVE  MARIA   BELLS  245 

Hast  then  no  faith?    Thine  is  the  fault: — 
What  prophets,  heroes,  sages,  saints, 
Have  loved,  on  thee  still  makes  assault, 
Thee  with  immortal  things  acquaints. 

On  life  then  seize : 

Doubt  is  disease. 

AVE  MARIA  BELLS 
By  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

At  dawn,  the  joyful  choir  of  bells, 

In  consecrated  citadels, 
Flings  on  the  sweet  and  drowsy  air 
A  brief,  melodious  call  to  prayer; 

For  Mary,  Virgin  meek  and  lowly, 

Conceived  of  the  Spirit  Holy, 
As  the  Lord's  angel  did  declare. 

At  noon,  above  the  fretful  street, 

Our  souls  are  lifted  to  repeat 
The  prayer,  with  low  and  wistful  voice: 
"According  to  thy  word  and  choice. 

Though  sorrowful  and  heavy  laden, 

So  be  it  done  to  thy  Handmaiden"; 
Then  all  the  sacred  bells  rejoice. 

At  eve  with  roses  in  the  west, 

The  daylight's  withering  bequest, 
Ring,  prayerful  bells,  while  blossom  bright 
The  stars,  the  lilies  of  the  night : 

Of  all  the  songs  the  years  have  sung  us, 

"The  Word  made  Flesh  had  dwelt  among  us," 
Is  still  our  ever-new  delight. 


UG  STIGMATA 

STIGMATA 

By  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

In  the  wrath  of  the  Hps  that  assail  us, 

In  the  scorn  of  the  Hps  that  are  dumb, 
The  symbols  of  sorrow  avail  us, 

The  joy  of  the  people  is  come. 
They  parted  Thy  garments  for  barter, 

They  follow  Thy  steps  with  complaint; 
Let  them  know  that  the  pyre  of  the  martyr 

But  purges  the  blood  of  the  saint ! 

They  have  crucified  Thee  for  a  token, 

For  a  token  Thy  flesh  crucified 
Shall  bleed  in  a  heart  that  is  broken 

For  love  of  the  wound  in  Thy  side; 
In  pity  for  palms  that  were  pleading, 

For  feet  that  were  grievously  used. 
There  is  blood  on  the  brow  that  is  bleeding 

And  torn,  as  Thy  brow  that  was  bruised ! 
By  Thee  have  we  life,  breath,  and  being; 

Thou  hast  knowledge  of  us  and  our  kind ; 
Thou  hast  pleasure  of  eyes  that  are  seeing. 
And  sorrow  of  eyes  that  are  blind; 
By  the  seal  of  the  mystery  shown  us — 

The  wound  that  with  Thy  wounds  accord — 
O  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  us! 

Have  mercy  upon  us,  O  Lord! 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  GABRIEL  247 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  GABRIEL 

By  Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

(The    Mission   of   San   Gabriel   Archangel,   near    Los    Angeles, 

founded  in  1771,  was,  for  a  time,  the  most  flourishing 

mission  in  California) 

Thine  was  the  corn  and  the  wine, 

The  blood  of  the  grape  that  nourished ; 
The  blossom  and  fruit  of  the  vine 

That  was  heralded  far  away. 

When  the  wine  and  fig-tree  flourished, 
The  promise  of  peace  and  of  glad  increase 

Forever    and  ever  and  aye. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now  ? 

Answer  me,  O,  I  pray ! 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Oil  of  the  olive  was  thine; 

Flood  of  the  wine-press  flowing, 
Blood  of  the  Christ  was  the  wine — 

Blood  of  the  Lamb  that  was  slain. 
Thy  gifts  were  fat  of  the  kine 

Forever  coming  and  going 
Far  over  the  hills,  the  thousand  hills — 

Their  lowing  a  soft  refrain. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now? 

Answer  me  once  again ! 


248  THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  GABRIEL 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 


Seed  of  the  corn  was  thine — 

Body  of  Him  thus  broken 
And  mingled  with  blood  of  the  vine — 

The  bread  and  the  wine  of  life. 
Out  of  the  good  sunshine 

They  were  given  to  thee  as  a  token — 
The  body  of  Him,  and  the  blood  of  Him, 

When  the  gifts  of  God  were  rife. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now? 

After  the  weary  strife? 

And  everynote  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel  the  Archangel. 

Where  are  they  now,  O  bells? 

Where  are  the  fruits  of  the  Mission? 
Garnered,  where  no  one  dwells, 

Shepherd  and  flock  are  fled. 
O'er  the  Lord's  vineyard  swells 

The  tide  that  with  fell  perdition 
Sounded  their  doom  and  fashioned  their  tomb 

And  buried  them  with  the  dead. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now  ? 

The  answer  is  still  unsaid. 


THE  POOR  249 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 

Where  are  they  now,  O  tower ! 

The  locusts  and  wild  honey? 
Where  is  the  sacred  dower 

That  the  bride  of  Christ  was  given? 
Gone  to  the  wielders  of  power, 

The  misers  and  minters  of  money; 
Gone  for  the  greed  that  is  their  creed — 

And  these  in  the  land  have  thriven. 
What  then  wert  thou,  and  what  art  now, 

And  wherefore  hast  thou  striven? 

And  every  note  of  every  bell 
Sang  Gabriel !  rang  Gabriel ! 
In  the  tower  that  is  left  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  Gabriel,  the  Archangel. 


THE  POOR 
By  Speer  Strahan,  C.SjC. 

The  poor  I  saw  at  the  cloister  gate 

Mutely  beg  with  their  patient  eyes 
An  alms,  for  the  love  of  Him  who  sate 

And  supped  with  the  poor  in  human  guise. 

And  there  were  monks  saw  the  nails'  deep  scars 
In  the  shrunken  hands  that  reached  for  bread. 

Who  heard  a  Voice  from  beyond  the  stars 
In  the  broken  thanks  of  them  they  fed. 


250  HOLY   COMMUNION 

I,  too,  at  the  gates  of  God  each  day 

Seek  for  an  alms  of  strength  and  grace. 

Beggar  am  I  that  wait  and  pray 
To  feast  my  soul  on  His  beauteous  Face. 


THE  PROMISED  COUNTRY 

By  Speer  Strahan,  C.SjC. 

Fair  must  that  promised  country  be 
Whose  streams  rise  from  eternity 
And  One  doth  lead  upon  that  way 
Whose  footfalls  are  the  paths  of  day. 

Nor  lurking  fear  pursues  them  there, 
As  forward  in  the  morning  air 
With  Him  the  blessed  ransomed  go, 
Their  garments  washen  white  as  snow. 

Alas!  my  days  are  very  dim 
That  look  up  to  the  Seraphim. 
Ah,  Lord,  some  dawning  may  I  be 
One  of  that  shining  company! 

HOLY  COMMUNION 

By  Speer  Strahan,  C.S.C. 

Disguised  He  stands  without  in  the  street; 

Far  come  is  He  on  heavy  feet. 

O  heart  of  mine,  open  thy  gate ; 

For  darkness  falls,  and  it  is  late!  ' 


STARS  OF  CHEER  251 

Lord  of  the  heaven's  fairest  height, 
Homeless  in  the  traveler's  night, 
Begging  my  hearth,  my  board,  my  cup, 
That  I,  not  He,  may  richly  sup. 

O  soul  of  mine,  the  board  begin, 
And  let  this  wondrous  Beggar  in! 


STARS  OF  CHEER 
Caroline  D.  Swan 

The  silent  Christmas  stars  shine  cool  and  clear 
Above  a  world  of  mingled  joy  and  woe; 
On  peaceful  cottage  homes,  with  thanks  aglow 

For  royal  bounty  of  the  grape-crowned  year; 

And  on  red  fields  of  blood,  where  many  a  tear 
Is  wiped  away  by  Death,  a  gentle  foe. 
More  merciful  than  they  who  bade  it  flow. 

Shine,  silver  stars,  rain  down  your  blessed  cheer ! 

Comfort  the  mourner  with  your  Angel  song! 
The  Christ-Child  reigns.    Behold  His  tiny  hand 

Upraised  in  benediction  warm  and  sweet! 
O'er  every  joy  and  every  bitter  wrong 

The  Babe  of  Bethlehem  hath  supreme  command; 
Come,  worship,  kings  and  peoples,  at  His  feet! 


25a  CHRIST  AND  THE  PAGAN 

CHRIST  AND  THE  PAGAN 

By  John  B.  Tabs 

I  HAD  no  God  but  these. 
The  sacerdotal  Trees, 
And  they  uplifted  me. 
"I  hung  upon  a  tree." 

The  sun  and  moon  I  saw. 
And  reverential  awe 
Subdued  me  day  and  night. 
"I  am  the  perfect  light" 

Within  a  lifeless  Stone — 
All  other  gods  unknown — 
I  sought  Divinity. 
"The  Corner-Stone  am  I" 

For  sacrificial  feast 
I  slaughtered  man  and  beast. 
Red  recompense  to  gain. 
"So  I,  a  Lamb,  was  slain. 

Yea;  such  My  hungering  Grace 
That  where  ev'r  My  face 
Is  hidden,  none  may  grope 
Beyond  eternal  Hope." 


RECOGNITION  253 

OUT  OF  BOUNDS 
By  John  B.  Tabs 

A  LITTLE  Boy  of  heavenly  birth, 

But  far  from  home  to-day. 
Comes  down  to  find  His  ball,  the  Earth, 

That  Sin  has  cast  away. 
O  comrades,  let  us  one  and  all 
Join  in  to  get  Him  back  His  ball ! 


FATHER  DAMIEN 
By  John  B.  Tabb 


O  God,  the  cleanest  offering 
Of  tainted  earth  below, 
Unblushing  to   Thy   feet   we  bring — 
"A  leper  white  as  snow!" 


RECOGNITION 

By  John  B.  Tabb 

When  Christ  went  up  to  Calvary, 
His  crown  upon  His  head, 

Each  tree  unto  its  fellow-tree 
In  awful  silence  said : 

"Behold  the  Gardener  is  He 

Of  Eden  and  Gethsemane!" 


254  LILIUM  REGIS 

"IS  THY  SERVANT  A  DOG?" 

By  John  B,  Tabb 

So  must  he  be,  who  in  the  crowded  street, 
Where  shameless  Sin  and  flaunting  Pleasure  meet, 
Amid  the  noisome  footprints  finds  the  sweet 
Faint  vestige  of  Thy  feet. 

LILIUM  REGIS 
By  Francis  Thompson 

O  Lily  of  the  King,  low  lies  thy  silver  wing, 

And  long  has  been  the  hour  of  thine  unqueening; 
And  thy  scent  of  Paradise  on  the  night-wind  spends  its 
sighs, 

Nor  any  take  the  secrets  of  its  meaning. 
O  Lily  of  the  King,  I  speak  a  heavy  thing, 

O  patience,  most  sorrowful  of  daughters! 
Lo,  the  hour  is  at  hand  for  the  troubling  of  the  land, 

And  red  shall  be  the  breaking  of  the  waters. 

Sit  fast  upon  thy  stalk,  when  the  blast  shall  with  thee 
talk. 

With  the  mercies  of  the  King  for  thine  awning, 
And  the  Just  understand  that  thine  hour  is  at  hand, 

Thine  hour  at  hand  with  power  in  the  dawning. 
When  the  nations  lie  in  blood,  and  their  kings  a  broken 
brood, 

Locrf<  up,  O  most  sorrowful  of  daughters! 
Lift  up  thy  head  and  hark  what  sounds  are  in  the  dark. 

For  His  feet  are  coming  to  thee  on  the  waters. 


i 


TO   THE  ENGLISH  MARTYRS  255 

O  Lily  of  the  King,  I  shall  not  see  that  sing, 

I  shall  not  see  the  hour  of  thy  queening ! 
But  my   Song  shall   see,  and  wake   like  a  flower  that 
dawn-winds  shake, 

And  sigh  with  joy  the  o'dours  of  its  meaning. 
O  Lily  of  the  King,  remember  then  the  thing 

That  this  dead  mouth  sang ;  and  thy  daughters, 
As  they  dance  before  His  way ;  sing  there  on  the  Day 

What  I  sang  when  night  wa's  on  the  waters ! 


TO  THE  ENGLISH  MARTYRS 

By  Francis  Thompson 

Rain,  rain  on  Tyburn  tree. 
Red  rain  a-f ailing; 
Dew,  dew  on  Tyburn  tree, 
Red  dew  on  Tyburn  tree, 
And  the  swart  bird  a-calling. 
The  shadow  lies  on  England  now 
Of  the  deathly-fruited  bough: 
Cold  and  black  with  malison 
Lies  between  the  land  and  sun; 
Putting  out  the  sun,  the  bough 
Shade's  England  now! 

The  troubled  heavens  so  wan  with  care, 
And  burdened  with  the  earth's  despair 
Shiver  a-cold ;  the  starved  heaven 
Has  want,  with  wanting  men  bereaven. 
Blest  fruit  of  the  unblest  bough, 
Aid  the  land  that  smote  vou.  now! 


256  TO  THE  ENGLISH  MARTYRS 

That  feels  the  sentence  and  the  curse 

Ye  died  if  so  ye  might  reverse. 

When  God  was  stolen  from  out  man's  mouth. 

Stolen  was  the  bread;  then  hunger  and  drouth 

Went  to  and  fro ;  began  the  wail, 

Struck  root  the  poor-house  and  the  jail, 

Ere  cut  the  dykes,  let  through  that  flood, 

Ye  writ  the  protest  with  your  blood ; 

Against  this  night — wherein  our  breath 

Withers,  and  the  toiled  heart  perisheth, — 

Entered  the  caveat  of  your  death. 

Christ  in  the  form  of  His  true  Bride, 

Again  hung  pierced  and  crucified, 

And  groaned,  "I  thirst !"    Not  still  ye  stood, — 

Ye  had  your  hearts,  ye  had  your  blood ; 

And  pouring  out  the  eager  cup, — 

"The  wine  is  weak,  yet,  Lord  Christ,  sup." 

Ah,  blest !  who  bathed  the  parched  Vine 

With  richer  than  Hi's  Cana-wine, 

And  heard,  your  most  sharp  supper  past: 

"Ye  kept  the  best  wine  to  the  last!" 

Ah,  happy  who 

That  sequestered  secret  knew, 

How  sweeter  than  bee-haunted  dells 

The  blosmy  blood  of  martyrs  smells ! 

Who  did  upon  the  scaffold's  bed. 

The  ceremonial  steel  between  you,  wed 

With  God's  grave  proxy,  high  and  reverend  Death ; 

Or  felt  about  your  neck,  sweetly, 

(While  the  dull  horde 

Saw  but  the  unrelenting  cord) 


TO  THE  ENGLISH  MARTYRS  257. 

The  Bridegroom's  arm,  and  that  long  kiss 

That  kissed  away  your  breath,  and  claimed  you  His. 

You  did,  with  thrift  of  holy  gain, 

Unvenoming  the  sting  of  pain. 

Hive  its  sharp  heather-honey.    Ye 

Had  sentience  of  the  mystery 

To  make  Abaddon's  hooked  wings 

Buoy  you  up  to  starry  things ; 

Pain  of  heart,  and  pain  of  sense, 

Pain  the  scourge,  ye  taught  to  cleanse  ; 

Pain  the  loss  became  possessing ; 

Pain  the  curse  was  pain  the  blessing. 

Chains,  rack,  hunger,  solitude, — these, 

Which  did  your  soul  from  earth  release. 

Left  it  free  to  rush  upon 

And  merge  in  its  compulsive  Sun. 

Desolated,  bruised,  forsaken, 

Nothing  taking,  all  things  taken, 

Lacerated  and  tormented. 

The  stifled  soul,  in  naught  contented. 

On  all  hands  straitened,  cribbed,  denied. 

Can  but  fetch  breath  o'  the  Godward  side. 

Oh,  to  me,  give  but  to  me 

That  flower  of  felicity, 

Which  on  your  topmost  spirit  ware 

The  difficult  and  snowy  air 

Of  high  refusal!  and  the  heat 

Of  central  love  which  fed  with  sweet 

And  holy  fire  i'  the  frozen  sod 

Roots  that  ta'en  hold  on  God. 


Unwithering  youth  in  you  renewed 
Those  rosy  waters  of  your  blood, — 


258  TO   THE  ENGLISH  MARTYRS 

The  true  Pons  Juventutis;  ye 

Pass  with  conquest  that  Red  Sea, 

And  stretch  out  your  victorious  hand 

Over  the  Fair  and  Holy  Land. 

O  by  the  Church's  pondering  art 

Late  set  and  named  upon  the  chart 

Of  her  divine  astronomy, 

Through  your  influence  from  on  high 

Long  shed  unnoted!    Bright 

New  ckister  in  our  Northern  night, 

Cleanse  from  its  pain  and  undelight 

An  impotent  and  tarnished  hymn, 

Whose  marish  exhalations  dim 

Splendours  they  would  transfuse !     And  thou 

Kindle  the  words  which  blot  thee  now. 

Over  whose  sacred  corse  unhearsed 

Europe  veiled  her  face,  and  cursed 

The  regal  mantle  grained  in  gore 

Of  genius,  freedom,  faith,  and  More! 

Ah,  happy  Fool  of  Christ,  unawed 

By  familiar  sanctities, 

You  served  your  Lord  at  holy  ease ! 

Dear  Jester  in  the  Courts  of  God 

In  whose  spirit,  enchanting  yet. 
Wisdom  and  love  together  met, 
Laughed  on  each  other  for  content! 
That  an  inward  merriment, 
An  inviolate  soul  of  pleasure, 
To  your  motions  taught  a  measure 
All  your  days ;  which  tyrant  king. 
Nor  bond's,  nor  any  bitter  thing, 
Could  embitter  or  perturb; 


TO  THE  ENGLISH  MARTYRS  259 

No  daughter's  tears,  nor,  more  acerb, 

A  daughter's  frail  declension  from 

Thy  serene  example,  come 

Between  thee  and  thy  much  content. 

Nor  could  the  last  sharp  argument 

Turn  thee  from  thy  sweetest  folly; 

To  the  keen  accolade  and  holy 

Thou  didst  bend  low  a  sprightly  knee, 

And  jest  Death  out  of  gravity 

As  a  too  sad-visaged  friend; 

So,  jocund  passing  to  the  end 

Of  thy  laughing  martyrdom; 

And  now  from  travel  art  gone  home 

Where,  since  gain  of  thee  was  given, 

Surely  there  is  more  mirth  in  heaven ! 

Thus,  in  Fisher  and  in  thee, 
Arose  the  purple  dynasty, 
The  anointed  Kings  of  Tyburn  tree; 
High  in  act  and  word  each  one : 
He  that  spake — and  to  the  sun 
Pointed — "I  shall  shortly  be 
Above  yon  fellow,"  He  too,  he 
No  less  high  of  speech  and  brave, 
Whose  word  was :  "Though  I  shall  have 
Sharp  dinner,  yet  I  trust  in  Christ 
To  have  a  most  sweet  supper."     Priced 
Much  by  men  that  utterance  was 
Of  the  doomed  Leonidas, — 
Not  more  exalt  than  these,  which  note 
Men  who  thought  as  Shakespeare  wrote. 

But  more  lofty  eloquence 
Than  is  writ  by  poet's  pens 


260  TO   THE  ENGLISH  MARTYRS 

Lives  in  your  great  deaths :  O  these 

Have  more  fire  than  poesies ! 

And  more  ardent  than  all  ode, 

The  pomps  and  raptures  of  your  blood! 

By  that  blood  ye  hold  in  fee 

This  earth  of  England;  Kings  are  ye: 

And  ye  have  armies — Want,  and  Cold, 

And  heavy  Judgments  manifold 

Hung  in  the  unhappy  air,  and  Sins 

That  the  sick  gorge  to  heave  begins, 

Agonies  and  Martyrdoms, 

Love,  Hope,  Desire,  and  all  that  comes 

From  the  unwatered  soul  of  man 

Gaping  on  God.     These  are  the  van 

Of  conquest,  these  obey  you ;  these, 

And  all  the  strengths  of  weaknesses. 

That  (brazen  walls  disbed.    Your  hand. 

Princes,  put  forth  to  the  command. 

And  levy  upon  the  guilty  land 

Your  saving  wars ;  on  it  go  down, 

Black  beneath  God's  and  heaven"s  frown  ; 

Your  prevalent  approaches  make 

With  unsustainable  grace,  and  take 

■Captive  the  land  that  captived  you; 

To  Christ  enslave  ye  and  subdue 

Her  so  bragged  freedom :  for  the  crime 

She  wrought  on  you  in  antique  time, 

Parcel  the  land  among  you ;  reign, 

Viceroys  to  your  sweet  Suzerain ! 

Till  she  shall  know 

This  lesson  in  her  overthrow: 

Hardest  servitude  has  he 

That's  jailed  in  arrogant  liberty ; 


THE  HOUND   OF  HEAVEN  261 

And  freedom,  spacious  and  unflawed, 
Who  is  walled  about  with  God. 


THE  HOUND  OF  HEAVEN 

By  Francis  Thompson 

I  FLED  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days ; 

I  fled  Him  down  the  arches  of  the  years ; 
I  fled  Him  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 

Of  my  own  mind;  and  in  the  midst  of  tears 
I  hid  from  Him,  and  under  running  laughter. 
Up  vistaed  hopes  I  sped ; 
And  shot,  precipitated, 
Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears. 
From  those  strong  Feet  that  followed,  followed  after. 
But  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy. 
They  beat — and  a  Voice  beat 
More  instant  than  the  Feet — 
"All  things  betray  thee,  who  betrayest  Me." 

I   pleaded,   outlaw-wise, 
By  many  a  hearted  casement,  curtained  red, 

Trellised  with  intertwining  charities ; 
(For,  though  I  knew  His  love  Who  followed. 

Yet  was  I  sore  adread 
Lest,  having  Him,  I  must  have  naught  beside)  ; 
But,  if  one  little  casement  parted  wide. 

The  gust  of  His  approach  would  clash  it  to. 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade,  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 


262  THE  HOUND  OF  HEAVEN 

Across  the  margent  of  the  world  I  fled, 

And  troubled  the  gold  gateway  of  the  stars, 
Smiting  for  shelter  on  their  clanged  bars; 
Fretted  to  dulcet  jars 
And  silvern  chatter  the  pale  ports  o'  the  moon. 
I  said  to  dawn,  Be  sudden;  to  eve,  Be  soon; 

With  thy  young  skiey  blossoms  heap  me  over 
From  his  tremendous  Lover! 
Float  thy  vague  veil  about  me,  lest  He  see ! 
I  tempted  all  His  servitors,  but  to  find 
My  own  betrayal  in  their  constancy, 
In  faith  to  Him  their  fickleness  to  me, 

Their  traitorous  trueness,  and  their  loyal  deceit. 
To  all  swift  things  for  swiftness  did  I  sue ; 

Clung  to  the  whistling  mane  of  every  wind. 
But  whether  they  swept,  smoothly  fleet, 
The  long  savannahs  of  the  blue; 

Or  whether,  Thunder-driven, 
They  clanged  his  chariot  'thwart  a  heaven 
Flashy  with  flying  lightnings  round  the  spurn  o'  their 
feet  :— 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Still  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace. 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy. 
Came  on  the  following  Feet, 
And  a  Voice  above  their  beat — 
Naught  shelters  thee,  who  wilt  not  shelter  Me." 

I  sought  no  more  that  after  which  I  strayed 

In  face  of  man  or  maid; 
But  still  within  the  little  children's  eyes 

Seems  something,  something  that  replies ; 


THE  HOUND   OF  HEAVEN  263 

They  at  least  are  for  me,  surely  for  me ! 

I  turned  me  to  them  very  wistfully ; 

But,  just  as  their  young  eyes  grew  sudden  fair 
With  dawning  answers  there, 

Their  angel  plucked  them  from  me  by  the  hair. 

"Come  then,  ye  other  children,  Nature's — share 

With  me"  (said  I)  "your  dehcate  fellowship; 
Let  me  greet  you  lip  to  lip, 
Let  me  twine  with  you  caresses, 

Wantoning 
With  our  Lady-Mother's  vagrant  tresses, 

Banqueting 
With  her  in  her  wind-walled  palace, 
Underneath  her  azured  dais. 
Quaffing,  as  your  taintless  way  is. 
From  a  chalice 

Lucent-weeping  out  of  the  dayspring." 
So  it  was  done: 

7  in  their  delicate  fellowship  was  one — 

Drew  the  bolt  of  Nature's  secrecies. 

/  knew  all  the  swift  importings 

On  the  wilful  face  of  skies; 
I  knew  how  the  clouds  arise 
Sptmied  of  the  wild  sea-snortings ; 

All  that's  born  or  dies 
Rose  and  drooped  with — made  them  shapers 

Of  mine  own  moods,  or  wailful  or  divine — 

With  them  joyed  and  was  bereaven. 
I  was  heavy  with  the  even, 
When  she  lit  her  glimmering  tapers 
Round  the  day's  dead  sanctities. 
I  laughed  in  the  morning's  eyes. 

I  triumphed  and  I  saddened  with  all  weather. 


264  THE  HOUND  OF  HEAVEN 

Heaven  and  I  wept  together, 
AnA  its  sweet  tears  were  salt  with  mortal  mine; 
Against  the  red  throb  of  its  sunset-heart 
I  laid  my  own  to  beat, 
And  share  commingling  heat; 
But  not  by  that,  by  that,  was  eased  my  human  smart. 
In  vain  my  tears  were  wet  on  Heaven's  grey  cheek. 
For  ah,  we  know  not  what  each  other  says 
These  things  and  I ;  in  sound  /  speak — 
Their  sound  is  but  their  stir,  they  speak  by  silences. 
Nature,  poor  stepdame,  cannot  slake  my  drought; 

Let  her,  if  she  would  owe  me, 
Drop  yon  blue  bosom-veil  of  sky,  and  show  me 

The  breasts  of  her  tenderness : 
Never  did  any  milk  of  hers  once  bless 

My  thirsting  mouth.  ' 

Nigh  and  nigh  draws  the  chase, 
With  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy; 
And  past  those  noised  fleet — 
A  Voice  comes  yet  more  fleet — 
"Lo!  naught  contents  thee  who  content'st  not  Me. 

Naked  I  wait  Thy  love's  uplifted  stroke ! 

My  harness  piece  by  piece  Thou  hast  hewn  from  me, 

I  am  defenceless  utterly. 

I  slept,  methinks,  and  woke, 
And,  slowly  gazing,  find  me  stripped  in  sleep. 
In  the  rash  lustihead  of  my  young  powers, 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 
And  pulled  my  life  upon  me ;  grimed  with  smears, 
I  stand  amid  the  dust  o'  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap. 


THE  HOUND   OF  HEAVEN  265 

My  days  have  crackled  and  gone  up  in  smoke, 
Have  puffed  and  burst  as  sun-starts  on  a  stream. 

Yea,  faileth  now  even  dream 
The  dreamer,  and  the  lute  the  lutanist  ; 
Even  the  linked  fantasies,  in  whose  blossomy  twist 
I  swung  the.  earth  a  trinket  at  my  wrist, 
Are  yielding;  cords  of  all  too  weak  account 
For  earth  with  heavy  griefs  so  overplussed. 

Ah!  is  Thy  love  indeed 
A  weed,  albeit  an  amaranthine  weed. 
Suffering  no  flowers  except  its  own  to  mount? 
Ah !  must — 
Designer  infinite! — 
Ah!   must  Thou  char  the  wood   ere   Thou  canst  limn 

with  it? 
My  freshness  spent  its  wavering  shower  i'  the  dust; 
And  now  my  heart  is  as  a  broken  fount, 
Wherein  tear-drippings  stagnate,  spilt  down  ever 

From  the  dank  thoughts  that  shiver 
Upon  the  sighful  branches  of  my  mind. 

Such  is ;  what  is  to  be  ? 
The  pulp  so  bitter,  how  shall  taste  the  rind? 
I  dimly  guess  what  Time  in  mists  confounds; 
Yet  ever  and  anon  a  trumpet  sounds 
From  the  hid  battlements  of  Eternity; 
Those  shaken  mists  a  space  unsettle,  then 
^und  the  half-glimpsed  turrets  slowly  wash  again. 

But  not  ere  him  who  summoneth 

I  first  have  seen  enwound 
With  glooming  robes  purpureal,  cypress-crowned; 
His  name  I  know,  and  what  his  trumpet  saith. 
Whether  man's  heart  or  life  it  be  which  yield? 

Thee  harvest,  must  Thy  harvest  fields 

Be  dunged  with  rotten  death? 


266  THE  HOUND   OF  HEAVEN 

Now  of  that  long  pursuit 
Comes  on  at  hand  the  bruit ; 

That  Voice  is  round  me  like  a  burstiiig  sea: 
"And  is  thy  earth  so  marred, 
Shattered  in  shard  on  shard? 

Lo !  all  things  fly  thee,  for  thou  fliest  Me ! 

Strange,  piteous,  futile  thing, 
Wherefore  should  any  set  thee  love  apart? 
Seeing  none  but  I  makes  much  of  naught"  (He  said) 
"And  human  love  needs  human  meriting: 

How  hast  thou  merited — 
Of  all  man's  clotted  clay  the  dingiest  clot? 

Alack,  thou  knowest  not 
How  little  worthy  of  any  love  thou  art! 
Whom  wilt  thou  find  to  love  ignoble  thee 

Save  Me,  save  only  Me? 
All  which  I  took  from  thee  I  did  but  take, 

Not  for  thy  harms. 
But  just  that  thou  might'st  seek  it  in  My  arms. 

All  which  thy  child's  mistake 
Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  stored  for  thee  at  home : 

Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come!" 

Halts  by  me  that  footfall: 

Is  my  gloom,  after  all, 
Shade  of  His  hand,  outstretched  caressingly? 

Ah,  fondest,  blindest,  weakest, 

"I  am  He  Whom  thou  seekest ! 
Thou  dravest  love  from  thee,  who  dravest  Me." 


THE  DREAD  OF  HEIGHT  267 

THE  DREAD  OF  HEIGHT 

By  Francis  Thompson 

"If  ye  were  blind,  ye  should  have  no  sin:  but  now  ye  say: 
We  see:  your  sin  remaineth." — John  ix,  41 

Not  the  Circean  wine 

Most  perilous  is  for  pain : 

Grapes  of  the  heaven's  star-Ioaden  vine. 

Whereto  the  lofty-placed 

Thoughts  of  fair  souls  attain, 

Tempt  with  a  more  retributive  delight, 

And  do  disrelish  all  life's  sober  taste. 

'Tis  to  have  drunk  too  well 
The  drink  that  is  divine, 
Maketh  the  kind  earth  waste, 
And  breath  intolerable. 

Ah,  me! 

How  shall  my  mouth  content  it  with  mortality? 

Lo,  secret  music,  sweetest  music, 

From  distances  of  distance  drifting  its  lone  flight, 

Down  the  arcane  where  Night  would  perish  in  night, 

Like  a  god's  loosened  locks  slips  undulously : 

Music  that  is  too  grievous  of  the  height 

For  safe  and  low  delight, 

Too  infinite 

For  bounded  hearts  which  yet  would  girth  the  sea! 

So  let  it  be. 

Though  sweet  be  great,  and  though  my  heart  be  small : 


268  THE  DREAD   OF  HEIGHT 

So  let  it  be, 

O  music,  music,  though  you  wake  in  me 

No  joy,  no  joy  at  all; 

Although  you  only  wake 

Uttermost  sadness,  measure  of  delight, 

Which  else  I  could  not  credit  to  the  height, 

Did  I  not  know, 

Did  I  not  know, 

That  ill  is  statured  to  its  opposite ; 

And  even  of  sadness  so. 

Of  utter  sadnes,  make 

Of  extreme  sad  a  rod  to  mete 

The  incredible  excess  of  unsensed  sweet. 

And  mystic  wall  of  strange  felicity. 

So  let  it  be. 

Though  sweet  be  great,  and  though  my  heart  be  small, 

And  bitter  meat 

The  food  of  Gods  for  men  to  eat; 

Yea,  John  ate  daintier,  and  did  tread 

Less  ways  of  heat, 

Than  whom  to  their  wind-carpeted 

High  banquet  hall, 

And  golden  love-feasts,  the  fair  stars  entreat. 

But  ah!  withal, 

Some  hold,  some  stay, 

O  difficult  joy,  I  pray. 

Some  arms  of  thine. 

Not  only,  only  arms  of  mine ! 

Lest  like  a  weary  girl  I  fall 

From  clasping  love  so  high, 

And  lacking  thus  thine  arms,  then  may 

Most  hapless  I 


THE  DREAD   OF  HEIGHT  269 

ITurn  utterly  to  love  of  .basest  rate ; 

For  low  they  fall  whose  fall  is  from  the  sky. 

Yea,  who  me  shall  secure 

But  I,  of  height  grown  desperate, 

Surcease  my  wing,  and  my  lost  fate 

Be  dashed  from  pure 

To  broken  writhings  in  the  shameful  slime: 

Lower  than  man,  for  I  dreamed  higher, 

Thrust  down,  by  how  much  I  aspire, 

And  damned  with  drink  of  immortality? 

For  such  things  be, 

Yea,  and  the  lowest  reach  of  reeky  Hell 

Is   but   made   possible 

By  foreta'en  breath  of  Heaven's  austerest  clime. 

These  tidings  from  the  vast  to  bring 

Needeth  not  doctor  nor  divine, 

Too  well,  too  well 

My  flesh  doth  know  the  heart-perturbing  thing; 

That  dread  theology  alone 

Is  mine. 

Most  native  and  my  own; 

And  ever  with  victorious  toil 

When  I  have  made 

Of  the  delfic  peaks  dim  escalade. 

My  soul  with  anguish  and  recoil 

Doth  like  a  city  in  an  earthquake  rock. 

As  at  my  feet  the  abyss  is  cloven  then, 

With  deeper  menace  than  for  other  men, 

'Of  my  potential  cousinship  with  mire; 

That  all  my  conquered  skies  do  grow  a  hollow  mock, 

'My  fearful  powers  retire, 


270        TO  MY  GODCHILD— FRANCIS  M.   W.  M. 

No  longer  strong, 

Reversing  the  shook  banners  of  their  song. 

Ah,  for  a  heart  less  native  to  high  Heaven, 

A  hooded  eye,  for  jesses  and  restraint, 

Or  for  a  will  aocipitrine  to  pursue ! — 

;The  veil  of  tutelar  flesh  to  simple  livers  given, 

Or  those  brave-fledging  fervours  of  the  Saint, 

Whose  heavenly  falcon-craft  doth  never  taint. 

Nor  they  in  sickest  time  their  ample  virtue  mew. 


TO  MY  GODCHILD— FRANCIS  M.  W.  M. 

By  Francis  Thompson 

This  labouring,  vast,  Tellurian  galleon, 

Riding  at  anchor,  off  the  orient  sun, 

Had  broken  its  cable,  and  stood  out  to  space 

Down  some  froze  Arctic  of  the  aerial  ways : 

And  now,  back  warping  from  the  inclement  main. 

Its  vapourous  shroudage  drenched  with  icy  rain. 

It  swung  into  its  azure  roads  again; 

When,  floated  on  the  prosperous  sun-gale,  you 

Lit,  a  white  halcyon  auspice,  'mid  our  frozen  crew. 

iTo  the  Sun,  stranger,  surely  you  belong. 

Giver  of  golden  days  and  golden  song; 

Nor  is  it  by  an  all-unhappy  plan 

You  bear  the  name  of  me,  his  constant  Magian. 

Yet,  ah !  from  any  other  that  it  came. 

Lest  fated  to  my  fate  you  be,  as  to  my  name. 

When  at  the  first  those  tidings  did  they  bring. 


TO  MY  GODCHILD— FRANCIS  M.   W.  M.        371 

My  heart  turned  troubled  at  the  ominous  thing : 

Though  well  may  such  a  title  him  endower, 

For  when  a  poet's  prayer  implores  a  poet's  power. 

The  Assisian,  who  kept  plighted  faith  to  three, 

To  Song,  to  Sanctitude,  and  Poverty, 

(In  two  alone  of  whom  most  singers  prove 

A  fatal  faithfulness  of  during  love!); 

He  the  sweet  Sales,  of  whom  we  scarcely  ken 

How  God  he  could  love  more,  he  so  loved  men; 

The  crown  and  crowned  of  Laura  and  Italy; 

And  Fletcher's  fellow — from  these,  and  not  from  me, 

Take  you  your  name,  and  take  your  legacy! 

Or,  if  a  right  successive  you  declare 

When  worms,  for  ivies,  interwine  my  hair, 

Take  but  this  Poesy  that  now  followeth 

My  clayey  best  with  sullen  servile  breath, 

Made  then  your  happy  freedman  by  testating  death. 

My  song  I  do  but  hold  for  you  in  trust, 

I  ask  you  but  to  blossom  from  my  dust. 

When  you  have  compassed  all  weak  I  began, 

Diviner  poet,  and  ah!  diviner  man — 

The  man  at  feud  with  the  perduring  child 

In  you  before  song's  altar  nobly  reconciled — 

From  the  wise  heavens  I  half  shall  smile  to  see 

How  little  a  world,  v/hich  owned  you,  needed  me. 

If,  while  you  keep  the  vigils  of  the  night. 

For  your  wild  tears  make  darkness  all  too  bright. 

Some  lone  orb  through  your  lonely  window  peeps, 

As  it  played  lover  over  your  sweet  sleeps, 

Think  it  a  golden  crevice  in  the  sky. 

Which  I  have  pierced  but  to  behold  you  by! 


272  MICHAEL   THE  ARCHANGEL 

And  when,  immortal  mortal,  droops  your  head. 

And  you,  the  child  of  deathless  song,  are  dead; 

Then,  as  you  search  with  unaccustomed  glance 

The  ranks  of  Paradise  for  my  countenance. 

Turn  not  your  tread  along  the  Uranian  sod 

Among  the  'bearded  counsellors  of  God; 

For,  if  in  Eden  as  on  earth  are  we, 

I  sure  shall  keep  a  younger  company: 

Pass  where  beneath  their  ranged  gonfalons 

The  starry  cohorts  shake  their  shielded  suns, 

The  dreadful  mass  of  their  enridged  spears: 

Pass  where  majestical  the  eternal  peers, 

The  stately  choice  of  the  great  Saintdom,  meet — 

A  silvern  segregation,  globed  complete 

In  sandalled  shadow  of  the  Triune  feet; 

Pass  by  where  wait,  young  poet-wayfarer, 

Your  cousined  clusters,  emulous  to  share 

With  you  the  roseal  lightnings  burning  'mid  their  hair; 

Pass  the  crystalline  sea,  the  Lampads  seven: — 

Look  for  me  in  the  nurseries  of  Heaven. 


MICHAEL  THE  ARCHANGEL 

By  Katherine  Tynan 

Not  woman- faced  and  sweet,  as  look 
The  angels  in  the  picture-book; 
But  terrible  in  majesty, 
More  than  an  army  passing  by. 

His  hair  floats  not  upon  the  wind 

Like  theirs,  but  curled  and  closely  twined; 


MICHAEL   THE  ARCHANGEL  273 

Wrought  with  his  aureole,  so  that  none 
Shall  know  the  gold  curls  from  the  crown. 

His  wings  he  hath  put  away  in  steel, 
He  goes  mail-clad  from  head  to  heel ; 
Never  moon-silver  hath  outshone 
His  breastplate  and  his  morion. 

His  brows  are  like  a  battlement, 
Beautiful,  brave  and  innocent; 
His  eyes  with  fires  of  battle  burn — 
On  his  strong  mouth  the  smile  is  stern. 

His  horse,  the  horse  of  Heaven,  goes  forth, 
Bearing  him  off  to  South  and  North, 
Neighing  far  off,  as  one  that  sees 
The  battle  over  distances. 

His  fiery  sword  is  never  at  rest. 
His  foot  is  in  the  stirrup  prest; 
Through  all  the  world  where  wrong  is  done 
Michael  the  Soldier  rideth  on. 

Michael,  Commander!     Angels  are 
That  sound  the  trumpet  and  that  bear 
The  banners  by  the  Throne,  where  is 
The  King  one  nameth  on  his  knees. 

Angels  there  are  of  peace  and  prayers, 
And  they  that  go  with  wayfarers. 
And  they  that  watch  the  house  of  birth. 
And  they  that  bring  the  dead  from  earth. 


274  PLANTING  BULBS 

And  mine  own  Angel.    Yet  I  see. 
Heading  God's  army  gloriously, 
Michael  Archangel,  like  a  sun, 
Splendid  beyond  comparison! 


PLANTING  BULBS 

By  Katherine  Tynan 

Setting  my  bulbs  a-row 

In  cold  earth  under  the  grasses. 
Till  the  frost  and  the  snow 

Are  gone  and  the  Winter  passes- 
Sudden  a  footfall  light, 

Sudden  a  bird-call  ringing; 
And  these  in  gold  and  in  white 

Shall  rise  with  a  sound  of  winging. 

Airy  and  delicate  all, 

All  go  trooping  and  dancing 

At  Spring's  call  and  footfall. 
Airily  dancing,  advancing. 

In  the  dark  of  the  year, 
Turning  the  earth  so  chilly, 

I  look  to  the  day  of  cheer. 
Primrose  and  daffodilly. 

Turning  the  sods  and  the  clay 
I  think  on  the  poor  sad  people 

Hiding  their  dead  away 
In  the  churchyard,  under  the  steeple. 


SHEEP  AND  LAMBS  375 

All  poor  women  and  men, 

Broken-hearted  and  weeping. 
Their  dead  they  call  on  in  vain. 

Quietly  smiling  and  sleeping. 

Friends,  now  listen  and  hear, 

Give  over  crying  and  grieving, 
There  shall  come  a  day  and  a  year 

When  the  dead  shall  be  as  the  living. 

There  shall  come  a  call,  a  footfall, 
And  the  golden  trumpeters  blowing 

Shall  stir  the  dead  with  their  call. 
Bid  them  be  rising  and  going. 

Then  in  the  daffodil  weather 

Lover  shall  run  to  lover; 
Friends  all  trooping  together; 

Death  and  Winter  be  over. 

Laying  my  bulbs  in  the  dark, 

Visions  have  I  of  hereafter. 
Lip  to  lip,  breast  to  breast,  hark! 

No  more  weeping,  but  laughter! 


SHEEP  AND  LAMBS 
By  Katherine  Tynan 

All  in  the  April  evening, 
April  airs  were  abroad; 

The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 
Passed  me  by  on  the  road. 


276  THE  MAKING   OF   BIRDS 

The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 
Passed  me  by  on  the  road; 

All  in  the  April  evening 

I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God. 

The  lambs  were  weary,  and  crying 
With  a  weak,  human  cry. 

I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God 
Going  meekly  to  die. 

Up  in  the  blue,  blue  mountains 
Dewy  pastures  are  sweet; 

Rest  for  the  little  bodies, 
Rest  for  the  little  feet. 

But  for  the  Lamb  of  God 

Up  on  a  hilltop  green 
Only  a  cross  of  shame 

Two  stark  crosses  between. 

All  in  the  April  evening, 
April  airs  were  abroad; 

I  saw  the  sheep  with  their  lambs, 
And  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God. 


THE  MAKING  OF  BIRDS 
By  Katherine  Tynan 

CjOD  made  Him  birds  in  a  pleasant  humour; 

Tired  of  planets  and  suns  was  He. 
He  said :  "1  will  add  a  glory  to  summer. 

Gifts  for  my  creatures  banished  from  Me!" 


THE  MAKING  OF  BIRDS  277 

He  had  a  thought  and  it  set  Him  smiHng 
Of  the  shape  of  a  bird  and  its  glancing  head, 

Its  dainty  air  and  its  grace  beguiling: 

"I  will  make  feathers,"  the  Lord  God  said. 

He  made  the  robin ;  He  made  the  swallow ; 

His  deft  hands  moulding  the  shape  to  His  mood, 
The  thrush  and  the  lark  and  the  finch  to  follow, 

And  laughed  to  see  that  His  work  was  good. 

He  Who  has  given  men  gift  of  laughter, 

Made  in  His  image;  He  fashioned  fit 
The  blink  of  the  owl  and  the  stork  thereafter. 

The  little  wren  and  the  long-tailed  tit. 

He  spent  in  the  making  His  wit  and  fancies ; 

The  wing- feathers  He  fashioned  them  strong; 
Deft  and  dear  as  daisies  and  pansies, 

He  crowned  His  work  with  the  gift  of  song. 

"Dearlings,"  He  said,  *'make  songs  for  my  praises!" 
He  tossed  them  loose  to  the  sun  and  the  wind. 

Airily  sweet  as  pansies  and  daisies; 

He  taught  them  to  build  a  nest  to  their  mind. 

The  dear  Lord  God  of  His  glories  weary — 
Christ  our  Lord  had  the  heart  of  a  boy — 

Made  Him  birds  in  a  moment  merry, 
Bade  them  soar  and  sing  for  His  joy. 


278  THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUSE 

THE  MAN  OF  THE  HOUSE 

By  Katherine  Tynan 

Joseph,  honoured  from  sea  to  sea, 
This  is  your  name  that  pleases  me, 
"Man  of  the  House." 

T  see  you  rise  at  the  dawn  and  Hght 
The  fire  and  blow  till  the  flame  is  bright. 

I  see  you  take  the  pitcher  and  carry 
The  deep  well-water  for  Jesus  and  Mary. 

You  knead  the  corn  for  the  bread  so  fine, 
Gather  them  grapes  irom  the  hanging  vine. 

There  are  little  feet  that  are  soft  and  slow, 
Follow  you  withersoever  you  go. 

There's  a  little  face  at  your  workshop  door, 
A  little  one  sits  down  on  your  floor : 

Holds  His  hands  for  the  shavings  curled, 
The  soft  little  hands  that  have  made  the  world. 

Mary  calls  you:  the  meal  is  ready: 

You  swing  the  Child  to  your  shoulder  steady. 

I  see  your  quiet  smile  as  you  sit 

And  watch  the  little  Son  thrive  and  eat. 


CCELO  ET  IN  TERRA  27d 

The  vine  curls  by  the  window  space, 
The  wings  of  angels  cover  the  face. 

Up  in  the  rafters,  polished  and  olden, 

There's  a  Dove  that  broods  and  his  wings  are  golden. 

You  who  kept  Them  through  shine  and  storm, 
A  staff,  a  shelter  kindly  and  warm, 

Father  of  Jesus,  husband  of  Mary, 
Hold  us  your  lilies  for  sanctuary!    - 

Joseph,  honoured  from  sea  to  sea, 
Guard  me  mine  and  my  own  roof-tree, 
"Man  of  the  House" ! 


COELO  ET  IN  TERRA 

By  Thomas  Walsh 

Earth  is  a  jealous  mother;  from  her  breast 

She  will  endure  no  separation  long 

From  aught  she  bore; 

So  one  by  one 

She  claimeth  evermore 

The  parent  and  the  friend — 

The  loveliest  and  the  best, 

The  meek,  the  faithful,  and  the  strong,—- 

Till,  link  by  golden  link  undone. 

The  very  tomb  that  seems 

To  youth  the  dismal  gulf  of  all  that's  fair. 

Becomes  the  chosen  hearthstone  of  our  dreams, 


ggQ  CCELO  ET  IN  TERRA 

The  wonder-house  of  all  most  rare, 

Most  deathless,  and  most  dear ; 

Where  the  bereaved  heart, 

Life's  exile  held  apart. 

Would  turn  for  love-warmth  and  abiding  cheer. 

Yea, — earth  can  be  so  kind, — 

Then  ye  that  rule  the  wind, 

Are  ye  of  less  appeal? 

Ye  spirits  of  the  stars 

And  regions  where  the  suns 

Themselves  as  atoms  wheel 

Beneath  your  thundering  cars? 

Cerulean  ones! — 

Or  goddesses,  or  saints, 

Or  demiurge,  or  Trinities, 

Wherewith  heaven  highest  faints! 

Are  ye  less  kind  than  these 

Dim  vaults  of  clay, 

Ye  boasts  and  fathers  of  the  ancient  day? 

Thou  god  Avernian,  Dis! — behold 

What  timid  form  and  old 

Adown  thy  purple  gulf  descends 

Unto  the  arch  of  Death— (Grim  friend  of  friends! 

Be  thou  placated!)  'Tis  a  mother,  see. 

Takes  her  first  step— a  child— into  eternity! 

Leave  her  not  fearful  there 

Who  was  of  love  entire, 

So  gentle  and  so  fair! — 

Thy  majesty  and  dread  withhold 

For  the  high  head  and  bold, — 

Imperial  Death,  mock  not  thyself  with  ire! 

Nay, — ^then  it  was  not  fear 

That  stayed  her  foot  the  while ; 


EGIDIO  OF  COIMBRA  281 


For  now  her  lovely  eyes, 
Unclouded,  brown, 

Are  lighted  with  their  greeting  smile — 
The  Hand  awaited  through  the  gloom 
Is  seen ! — her  whitened  forehead  lies 
Upon  the  Shepherd's  shoulder  down — • 
Yea, — her  own  Jesus  comes, — to  lead 
Unto  the  meadows  where  is  Peace  indeed! 


EGIDIO  OF  COIMBRA— 1597  A.D. 

By  Thomas  Walsh 

The  rumor  came  to  Frei  Egidio 

In  cloistered  Santa  Cruz,  that  out  of  Spain 

King  Philips  secret  courier  had  fared 

With  orders  under  seal  suspending  all 

The  statutes  of  Coimbra  that  controlled 

The  contests  for  the  prefessorial  chairs, 

And  ordering  the  Faculty  to  grant 

Padre  Francisco  Suarez  primacy 

Among  the  masters  theological. 

And  Frei  Egidio,  whose  ancient  name 

Fonseca  was  relinquished  when  at  court 

It  shone  its  brightest,  who  had  ceaseless  toiled 

His  score  of  years  in  cloister  and  in  schools. 

Unravelling  knotty  texts,  disputing  long 

With  monk  and  doctor  of  the  Carmelites, 

Dominicans  and  Trinitarians, 

Consulting  with  the  students,  visiting, 

Fawning  and  banqueting — himself  and  all 

His  faction  in  the  University — 


282  EGIDIO  OF  COIMBRA 

Now  in  the  iron  mandate  from  Madrid 

Saw  failure  blight  his  hopes,  and  Santa  Cruz 

Eclipsed,  through  imposition  unforeseen 

Of  Suarez  de  Toledo — only  half 

A  monk! — a  fledgling  doctor  in  the  Schools!— 

And  Frei  Egidio  unsleeping  schemed 

To  check  the  rising  of  this  Spanish  star 

Within  Coimbra, — and  his  henchmen  went 

Stealthy  and  sure  to  sow  malignant  seed 

To  choke  the  Hapsburg's  new  autocracy. 

Stately  was  Frei  Egidio,  robust, 

Swarthy  and  smooth  his  cheek;  his  raven  locks 

Piling  about  his  tonsure  in  a  crown. 

Dark  flashed  his  eye  whene'er  he  rose  to  cast 

His  syllogistic  spear  across  the  lists, 

Where  many  a  mighty  crest  Minerva-crowned 

Was  forced  to  yield,  or  learnt  the  rapier  thrust 

Of  his  distinguo  and  non-sequiter. 

Still  more  he  shone  when  in  procession  moved 

The  doctors,  masters,  and  licentiates, 

With  tufted  caps,  and  rainbow  gowns,  and  stoles. 

And  ring,  and  book  across  the  steeps  and  squares. 

While  gallant  youths  pressed  round  on  horse  or  foot 

Holding  his  robe  or  stirrup  through  the  town — 

The  Catedratico  da  Vespera. 

But  now  this  little  shrivelled  man  sent  out 

From  Salamanca, — (Philip's  paragon! — 

To  rule  Coimbra  in  theology! — 

One  of  Loyola's  strange  and  restless  band 

In  the  Collegio  de  Jesus, — reproach 

To  every  gorgeous  doctor  in  the  halls. 

'Twas  true  he  hid  away  within  his  house. 

Came  seldom  to  the  festival  or  Acts, 


EGIDIO  OF  COIMBRA  283 

Nor  oft  asserted  his  high  presidence 

O'er  Frei  Egidio — in  craft  or  scorn, 

It  mattered  not — for  Frei  Egidio 

Would  pluck  him  forth;  no  signet  of  the  King 

Could  serve  him  here;  the  doctors  of  the  Schools 

Should  learn  how  he,  Fonseca,  had  been  wronged.  , 

With  formal  placards  soon  they  smeared  the  walls 

Of  shrine  and  college,  telling  day  and  hour 

And  place,  where  Doutor  Frei  Egidio 

Da  Presentacao,  of  the  Eremites 

Of  Sao  Agostinho,  titular 

Da  Vespera,  would  his  conclusions  hold 

"De  Voluntario  et  Involuntario" 

Against  all-comers,  and  imprimis  there, 

The  Doutor  Padre  Suarez,  titular 

Da  Prima  of  Coimbra,  theologue 

Of  the  Collegia  and  Compania 

De  Jesus.    From  near  and  far  they  came, 

And  took  their  stated  rank,  and  filed 

Into  the  Hall  of  Acts ;  the  Chancellor 

And  Rector  in  their  robes  of  silk,  and  fur, 

And  velvet,  and  great  chains  and  seals  of  state; 

The  Bishop,  and  Inquisitor,  and  Dean, 

And  Chapter,  in  their  purple;  Canonists 

In  green ;  and  Jurists  in  their  scarlet  gowns ; 

Frei  Luiz  of  the  Chair  of  Holy  Writ, 

In  black  and  white  of  the  Dominicans ; 

Frei  Manoel  of  the  Chair  of  Scotus,  garbed 

In  white  and  brown  of  Carmel;  titulars 

In  Peter  Lombard  and  Durandus, — sons 

Of  Bernard,  Francis  and  Saint  Benedict, 

When  each  in  order  of  his  ancientry 

Was  seated  in  thg  tribune,  and  below 


284  EGIDIO   OF   COIMBRA 

Ranged  the  licentiates,  and  bachelors, 

And,  out  beyond,  the  thousand  students, — gay 

In  plumes  and  ruffs,  or  rags  and  disrepair, — 

There  entered  Bacharel  Frei  Constantino 

Citing  the  obligations ;  whereupon 

Egidio  began  his  argument 

With  exposition  and  arrangement  clear, 

And  summary  abrupt  and  crushing,  as 

His  old  experience  in  the  courts  had  taught, — 

So  free  in  tone  and  doctrine  that  the  throng 

Swayed  on  their  benches,  beating  noisily 

Great  tomes  together  like  the  roll  of  drums. 

Then  silence  for  Suarez's  quodlibet; 

As  half -reluctant,  without  emphasis, 

His  cold  unwavering  voice  proposed  the  plan 

Of  his  objection, — When  uproarious 

Upon  the  instant,  Frei  Egidio 

In  tones  o'f  thunder  shouted  o'er  the  hall, — ' 

"Nego   major  em!" — the   scholastic   world's 

Unmitigated  insult!     How  would  he, 

Spain's  boasted  tlieologian,  reply 

To  Portugal's?    The  Jesuits  around 

Suarez's  rostrum  marvelled,  whispered,  turned. 

And  hid  their  faces,  when  they  saw  him  bowed 

Silent  a  moment,  ere  descending,  calm. 

He  led  them  home  across  the  jeering  town. 

Then  the  mad  acclamations;  bells  of  shrine 

And  monastery  on  the  hills;  the  sweep 

Of  robes  prelatical,  the  cavalcade 

Of  gorgeous  nobles  into  Santa  Cruz; 

The  blare  of  trumpets,  and  the  lanterns  strung 

Yellow  beneath  the  moon;  the  beggar  throngs; 

The  maskers  down  the  lanes;  the  nightingales 


EGIDIO   OF  COIMBRA 

And  river-songs  of  students  wafted  far 

Across  Mondego's  Hills  of  Loneliness 

And  Meditation  where  Coimibra  slept. 

Thus  triumphed  Frei  Egidio.    But  high 

In  the  Collegio  de  Jesus  the  blow 

Was  red  on  every  cheek;  the  Rector  rose 

In  the  community  and  said:  "Padre 

Francisco,  not  in  fifty  years  have  we 

In  our  Coimbra  known  such  sore  defeat; 

Tell  me,  I  pray,  had  you  no  thought  to  save 

Your  honor  and  the  honor  of  our  schools — 

You,  boast  of  Rome  and  Salamanca's  halls. — 

You,  to  whom  all  the  dialectic  arts 

Have  -been  as  play — could  you  not  parry,  feint. 

Or  bait  Egidio  until  some  chance 

Or  newer  turn  might  save  your  argument?" 

Suarez  bowed  and  answered:  "Better  far 

That  we  be  humbled  than  a  great  man  fall 

To  utter  shame  and  ruin !    Had  I  told 

Egidio  there  that  in  denying  thus 

My  proposition  he  was  challenging 

A  solemn  canon,  word  for  word,  prescribed 

At  Constance  by  the  Universal  Church — 

Fetch  me  the  Book  of  Councils — he  was  lost." 

Scarce  was  the  secret  spoken,  ere  it  stole 

In  rumor  through  the  novice-court,  and  thence 

Below  to  Santa  Cruz, — stole,  like  a  cloud, 

Black,  ominous,  across  the  starlit  dome 

Above  the  black  mosteiro,  where  the  moon 

Revelled  amid  the  sculptured  lattices, — 

The  marble  ropes  and  palms  memorial 

Of  old  Da  Gama  and  his  caravels, — 

Upon  the  rose-paths  and  the  trickling  pools 


286  EGIDIO  OF   COIMBRA 

Along  the  Cloister  do  Silencio. 

There  paced  Fonseca,  solitary  guest 

To  catch  the  final  crumbs,  the  laughter,  far 

Adown  the  stream,  of  lutes  that  mourned  his  feast, 

When  lo !  a  billet  in  his  path ! — "Awake, — " 

He  read, — "at  Constance  'twas  decreed.     Thy  voice 

Hath  mocked  the  very  words  of  Holy  Church." — 

No  more, — yet  in  foreboding  he  made  haste 

To  find  his  taper, — fumbled  through  the  stacks 

In  dust  and  chill, — unclasped  the  folio 

Liber  Conciliorum, — saw  his  doom — 

Perchance  the  rack  and  Secret  Prisons — writ 

Upon  the  parchment! — Silence,  mocking  lutes! 

Come,  rain!  come,  whirlwind,  blot  the  lanterns  out: 

Now  knew  he  their  insidious  subterfuge — ■ 

The  slippery  Pharisees — to  undermine 

Coimbra's  last  bright  paragon, — they  claimed 

Another  victim! — But  his  rage  gave  way 

I'o  grief ;  his  scorn  was  all  to  blame ;  no  scheme 

Was  theirs;  Suarez  spoke  the  Council's  words 

As  duty  bound  him, — With  the  break  of  day 

Came  self -renouncement  to  Egidio; 

And  in  amaze  to  greet  his  ashen  face 

The  sacristan  laid  out  for  him  the  alb 

And  chasuble  of  Requiem;  resigned. 

Like  some  bowed  reed  the  storm  has  swept  by  night, 

He  took  the  chalice,  veiled  it  'gainst  his  breast. 

And  'mid  the  first  faint  glimmer  down  the  nave 

Crept  forth  unto  his  mystic  Calvary. 


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